


Time in a Glass

by SunnyD (sunrize83)



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 12:39:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 58,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16367906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunrize83/pseuds/SunnyD
Summary: A peek inside the boys' heads during the episode "A Coffin for Starsky," adding a few missing scenes along the way.





	Time in a Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Portions of this story consist of actual dialogue from the episode "A Coffin for Starsky." No copyright infringement is intended.

Time why you punish me?  
Like a wave crashin' into the shore  
you wash away my dreams.  
Time why you walk away?  
Like a friend with somewhere to go  
you left me cryin'.  
Can you teach me about tomorrow  
and all the pain and sorrow runnin' free?  
'Cause tomorrow's just another day  
and I don't believe in Time. 

Time -- Hootie and the Blowfish 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Hutch  
~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was dreaming when the phone rang. A strange dream where Starsky and I had followed a couple of big time drug dealers into a warehouse. We were hiding behind packing crates, just waiting for money and heroin to change hands so we'd have enough cause to bust the creeps. Trouble was, the waiting just seemed to go on and on for hours, time stretching like saltwater taffy until my whole body ached from holding so still. Then, just when I didn't think I could stand another minute, the fire alarm went off.

Now here's where the dream got really weird. Suddenly the air was thick with clouds of black smoke, making my eyes sting and choking the breath from my lungs, even though only a moment earlier there hadn't been the slightest hint of fire. I heard footsteps as the bad guys ran for their lives, then the voice of my partner, high with panic.

"Hutch!"

I stumbled to my feet, coughing and wheezing, knowing that we had to get out fast. My stomach did a long, slow roll as I realized I couldn't even see my own hand in front of my face, let alone... 

Starsky!

The fire alarm transformed into the trilling of the telephone on the bedside table. I rolled onto my back and fumbled for the receiver, bringing it to my ear without ever opening my eyes.

"H'lo."

Silence. No answering greeting, no "sorry, wrong number," not even a dial tone. Irritation drove away some of the fuzziness and I propped myself up on an elbow to squint at the clock. 4:01. In the morning. Jeez, was this someone's idea of a joke?

"Hello? Who's this?"

I was just about to slam the receiver back onto the cradle when a soft sound stayed my hand. Breathing, harsh and ragged, as if someone were struggling for air. Abrupt, irrational fear slammed into me like a freight train. I opened my mouth, but never got the chance to speak.

"Hutch...help."

Weak and thin, consonants slurred, but I'd recognize that particular voice anywhere, under any circumstances. I bolted upright, pressing the phone tightly to my ear.

"Starsky? Starsky, what's wrong, are you hurt? Talk to me, partner."

No response, just a muffled thud and then silence. Not even the soughing of his breath for reassurance.

Okay, I'll admit it. I went a little crazy. I have vague memories of carrying the phone around, wedged between my shoulder and my chin, shouting and swearing at poor Starsky to pick up the damn phone and answer me as I pulled on some clothes. I couldn't bring myself to hang up. Just putting the phone down, terminating my only connection to him so that I could drive to his place, was one of the hardest things I've ever done.

It's nothing short of a miracle that I didn't wreck my car on the way to his apartment. The streets were mostly deserted, which was fortunate since I ran every red light. My thoughts were all tangled and jumbled--snapshot images of the smoke and terror from my dream mixed with the countless real life threats we encounter every day. And through it all, over and over, those words kept echoing in my head:

Hutch...help

I pulled in tight behind the Torino and took the stairs two at a time. I raised my fist to pound on the door, then froze when I saw it hung ajar, spilling a pale swathe of light onto the top step. Up until that moment I'd been functioning as a friend, consumed by the need to reach Starsky, to verify that he was all right or help him if he wasn't. That four inches of space between the door and the jamb brought me to my senses, snapped me into cop mode. I drew my gun and nudged the door the rest of the way open.

Other than a light over the stove, most of the apartment was bathed in shadow. Still, I know the place like the back of my hand, and was able to move unerringly through the living room to the bedroom. I risked calling out Starsky's name, my own voice sounding odd in the eerie silence.

In the bedroom the first thing my eyes settled on was the empty bed, the sheets rumpled and twisted. I flicked on the light, saw the phone cord dangling from the nightstand and the crumpled form of my partner. A quick, sweeping glance to be sure we were alone, then I holstered my weapon and dropped to my knees.

"Starsky."

I was afraid to touch him at first. Starsky is a bundle of energy, perpetual motion. To see him lying pale and still made my heart twist in my chest. I tentatively ran my fingers through his dark curls, looking for a lump, blood--something to explain why he was lying, unresponsive, on the floor. Had he fallen out of bed, hit his head? The open front door flashed through my brain, defying such an innocuous explanation.

When I couldn't find any sign of injury, I gently turned him over and pulled him into my lap. The warmth of his body, and the soft moan he uttered, slowed the pounding of my heart.

"Starsky," I murmured, feeling up and down the length of each arm for broken bones. "C'mon, wake up, buddy."

Dark eyelashes fluttered and his lids cracked open to reveal just a hint of blue. His mouth moved, and I could see the nearly superhuman effort it took for him to form words. "Hutch...help me." 

"I'm right here, Starsk, I've got you." I tried to mask the tremor in my voice, to make it as soothing as possible. "What's wrong, buddy, are you hurt? You've got to tell me what happened."

His hands fluttered, fingers scrabbling to grasp my jacket as he struggled to open eyes that had slipped shut while I was talking. "Hutch...help...shot."

A chill raced up and down my spine. "Shot? Someone shot you? Where, Starsk?" I eased him out of my arms and examined him from head to toe, only becoming more confused. No gunshot wound, no blood--in fact, there didn't seem to be a mark on him.

The whole time I was checking Starsky over he was trying to grab hold of me, mumbling words that were so badly garbled I could barely understand them.

"Mask...laughing...no shot...can' move...hours..."

All at once his words clicked into place. I used my thumb to carefully pry open his right eye. It was glassy, unfocused, and the pupil was huge, black nearly swallowing blue. Starsky was referring to a hypodermic, not a gun. He'd been drugged.

Hands shaking, I snatched up the phone and called for an ambulance, then hauled him back into my lap to wait. He kept trying to slip back under, but I wouldn't let him--lightly slapping his face, shaking him, forcing him to answer questions. I could see there was something else he wanted to tell me, but whatever he'd been given made concentration nearly impossible.

"Who was it, Starsky? Did you see his face?" I'd been badgering him for information in the hope of keeping him conscious. So far it was working--sort of. He hadn't gone back to sleep, but he was pretty fuzzy and not making much sense. I heard the first wail of a siren in the distance and pushed a little harder, knowing help was only minutes away. "Why did he drug you?"

He fought to focus on my face, fingers knotted into the leather of my jacket in a death grip, and his lips moved. "Po...po..."

"Portrell? Is that who it was? Mickey Portrell?" My blood boiled and my head filled with ideas of just what I'd do to Mickey when I got my hands on him.

Starsky's fingers curled around my wrist, tightening to the point of pain and capturing my attention. "No. 'S...po...poison."

The paramedics chose that moment to burst into the apartment. They surrounded Starsky and started taking his vital signs, unceremoniously shoving me out of the way. I sank back against the bed, resting my forehead on my knees. 

Poison? 

After several minutes of leaving me to my own troubled thoughts, one of the paramedics, a kid who didn't look old enough to shave let alone take care of my partner, tapped me on the shoulder.

"He's been drugged, some kind of barbiturate. It's a fairly heavy dose but not dangerous. We're taking him in to Memorial."

"He told me he was poisoned," I said through numb lips.

The kid frowned, sneaking a quick glance at his partner before answering. "They'll do a full blood work-up at Memorial. He's stable for now."

For now. Two little words that said it all.

"I'm coming with you," I told him.

His frown deepened and he shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir, but we don't allow family members to ride in the ambulance. If you get your car you can follow..."

I had my badge in my hand as soon as I heard the apology, tempted to pull my gun as well. "I'm a cop, and that's my partner. Wherever he goes, I go--got it?"

"This isn't an emergency, Tim, we can bend the rules a little. Let him ride along."

I sent the slightly older, obviously wiser paramedic a grateful look, then stood to help them load Starsky onto the gurney. He was out again, not even twitching as they strapped him in. A clear image of him after the shooting in the restaurant flashed before my eyes, his face chalk white, so frail looking, and I mentally gave myself a slap. This was different. Starsky wasn't being held hostage by hired killers, losing more blood with every passing second. He was safe now, on his way to the hospital where a doctor would figure out whatever poison he'd been given and administer the appropriate antidote. By tonight we'd probably be back at Metro, rehashing old cases and going through old files to figure out who'd want to hurt him.

I tried hard to tune out the siren's nerve-wracking whine, busying myself with tucking the blanket under Starsky's chin. The initial surge of adrenaline generated by his cry for help was wearing off, leaving me bone tired and sick at heart, a dull headache throbbing behind my eyes. Starsky was more than just my partner and best friend, he was closer to me than a brother. What hurt him hurt me, and I couldn't seem to shake the black cloud of uneasiness that had overshadowed me ever since I'd awakened from that blasted dream. The overwhelming feeling that Starsky...

NO! He's safe now. Everything is going to be fine. 

I kept repeating it over and over in my head, like a mantra, all the way into the emergency room. Maybe if I said it often enough, I'd start to believe it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Starsky  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At first I thought I was dreaming. There I was, sound asleep, when I felt a sharp, stabbing pain in my arm. Felt like something stung me or bit me. I sat straight up in bed, rubbing it and kinda lookin' around, thinking maybe there was a bee in the room. 

I hate bees.

Last thing I expected to see was some flake with a stocking over his head standin' next to my bed. I rolled away, hoping I could get outta bed and across the room to my gun before the guy could stab me a second time. Then things got really weird.

Everything turned blurry, and tryin' to move was like swimming through molasses. I blinked and shook my head--big mistake. I was flat on my back before I knew what hit me, struggling to keep open eyelids that felt as if they had thirty-pound weights attached to 'em. Someone started laughin' like he'd heard the funniest joke in the world and a minute later Stocking Mask was leanin' over me, holding a needle. It was like looking through a funhouse mirror--his face, the nose and ears all flattened by the mesh, and the needle looked huge while everything else wavered in and out of focus.

I was terrified of that syringe. Loopy as I was, I could still remember Hutch sweatin' and shiverin' in my arms as I nursed him through withdrawal. I fought to move, to yank my arm from his grasp and crawl away, but it was like my body no longer belonged to me. I was helpless to defend myself, helpless to stop him. I just lay there like a baby while he rammed the needled into my arm, never letting up on that damn cackling.

"You got twenty-four hours to live, Pig. Count 'em. Twenty-four." 

The words bounced and echoed through my head. Sounded like when we'd play cowboys and Indians in the drainage pipes when I was a kid, yelling and screaming at each other until the concrete vibrated or a cop came to chase us out.

I watched Stocking Mask cross my bedroom and walk out the door, my ears ringing and my stomach churning from the dizziness. My eyes kept slipping shut and I really wanted to just let go and sleep, but something was naggin' at me. What had he said? I shoved at the darkness that continued to sneak up on me, determined to concentrate. 

Twenty-four hours? For me to live? What was in that shot? Oh God, poison?

Hutch!

Somehow I was able to move, to roll toward the table next to the bed. A little corner of my brain recognized that the display on the clock read 3:58, but my target was the phone. It looked a million miles away but I flung my arm out as far as I could, trying to snag the receiver. Smooth move--I lost my balance and ended up on the floor, still tangled up in the sheets. I was so dizzy and mixed up I felt like cryin', but as messed up as my head was, one thing was still clear--Hutch would take care of me. If I could just reach the phone...

I concentrated on the nightstand and the three cords trailing down to the floor. There was really only one, of course, but my eyesight was pretty goofed up by Stocking Mask's drug. I heaved my arm up, tangled my fingers in the plastic, and pulled. The crash of the phone hitting the floor was one of the sweetest sounds I ever heard. 

I could barely feel my own hands as I fumbled the phone into a position where I could see the buttons. The numbers kept melting and running together, but after four years I could dial Blondie's number in my sleep--which I nearly was by that time. Don't know if you'd call it praying, but I just kept repeatin' the same words in my head as I listened to the phone ring. Kinda like when you're a kid and you say "Cross my heart, hope to die..." Only for me, it was:

PleaseHutchhelpmePleaseHutchhelpmePleaseHutchhelpme...

Funny thing was, when Hutch actually answered I couldn't seem to make my mouth work. All those words dancing around in my thick skull and I couldn't get 'em past my lips. So even though my brain was saying "Hutch, I need help, some creep just shot me up with some kinda poison and I can't move," all that I could squeeze out was "Hutch...help." Saying those two little words was more tiring than chasing a punk ten blocks on a hot day. The darkness that'd been hangin' around the edges of my vision sorta took over, and I guess I musta passed out.

I woke up to the feeling of someone's arms around me and the warmth of a body pressed up along my back. Everything was so mixed up, at first I panicked, sure that Stocking Mask had come back to finish me off. Then I realized that whoever was holding me was bein' real gentle, checking me over to see if I'd broken any bones or if there was a new dent in my head. Little by little, like someone turnin' up the volume on a radio, I could hear a familiar voice, and then words.

"Starsky. Come on, wake up, buddy."

It took a lotta hard work just to crank my eyes open a crack, but it was worth it to see that face. For the first time since I woke up and saw the creep in my bedroom, I felt safe. Like everything was gonna be okay. I just had to make Hutch understand, but getting my lips and tongue to move was nearly impossible.

"Hutch...help me."

I could feel him tighten his grip on me, and he started talking into my ear real soft and low, tellin' me how he was right there and asking me what happened. I still felt disconnected from my body, but I somehow got a couple of fistfulls of his leather jacket and tried again.

"Hutch...help...shot."

Brilliant, huh? You try makin' conversation when some flake's pumped you full of who knows what. See how much sense you make. 

Hutch, God love him, leaped to a completely wrong conclusion. Before I could blink an eye he had me laid out on the floor so he could look for a gunshot wound. I kept trying to grab onto him, make him stop and listen, though I gotta admit I was babblin' by then. My brain wasn't working too speedy, but it was a helluva lot faster than my mouth. Stocking Mask, the needle, the fact that I couldn't even move--it came spillin' out all at once, in a voice I didn't even recognize.

I gotta hand it to Hutch, though. Something, somewhere along the line clicked into place in that blond skull of his. He took one look at my eyes and figured it all out.

Hey, what can I say? I taught him everything he knows.

I think I started to fade out again while he was calling for an ambulance. I remember him picking me up off the floor and talkin' to me. Thing was, I could hear his voice but none of the words made any sense. They were like butterflies fluttering just out of my reach, and I was too tired to go chasing 'em. Felt like I was sinking down into a deep, warm pool of water, but every time I'd start to go under, Hutch'd yank me back by talking in my ear, askin' me a question--once or twice by slapping me or shaking me.

I finally decided if he wasn't gonna let me sleep, then I should tell him about the poison. I couldn't see his face when he finally got the message, but I felt his whole body tense up.

I really wish I coulda seen his face.

Suddenly Hutch was gone and people were poking and prodding me, shinin' lights in my eyes and stickin' one of those cold things on my chest that they use to make sure you ain't dead yet. I knew Hutch didn't want me to go to sleep, but I just couldn't seem to fight it any longer. 

I let go, knowin' Hutch would be there to watch over me. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Starsky  
~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

I guess I was in and out for a while. At one point I felt another sharp jab in my arm and I panicked--well, as much as I could, considerin' how loopy I was. I tried to move, to tug my arm from the strong hands, but I just ended up sliding back down closer to the darkness. One eyelid pried open to a blinding white beam of light. Scratchy cloth wrapping around my upper arm and squeezing. Cold metal pressed to the crook of my elbow. Something smooth and thin sliding between my lips and working its way under my tongue. And through it all, strange voices and sounds that droned on like white noise, without any meaning.

Hutch! Where was Hutch? I wanted to call his name, to reach for him, but the best I could manage was a pitiful whimper, my fingers opening and closing on air like the mouth of a dyin' fish. A voice broke free from the general buzzing, sharp, angry. Then a large hand slid into mine--solid, warm, comforting. Familiar.

Hutch.

His voice in my ear--low, soothing. I couldn't understand what he was sayin' any more than I could the others, but it didn't matter. I fought to tighten my fingers around his, to hang on even though I was sinking fast again. Hutch was my lifeline. If he was close by, I was safe.

Simple as that.

Without knowing it, I drifted off to the sound of his voice.

When I finally woke up again the fuzziness was gone. I just lay there for a minute, keeping my eyes closed, tryin' to get a handle on where I was, what was going on. Didn't take long for me to figure it out.

Hospital.

Damn.

I hate hospitals. No, I mean I really, really HATE hospitals. First off, they smell funny. Kinda like the gunk our janitor used to use when some poor unfortunate schmuck would puke in school. You know, the stuff that made you feel like tossin' your own cookies. 

Plus, they won't leave you alone. I mean, there you are, sick or hurt, and they keep poking and prodding and sticking you with needles. Not to mention the fact that they give you pills so you can get some sleep and then wake you up fifty times during the night to make sure you're still breathin'.

And nurses? Some of 'em might be angels of mercy, but not the ones I seem to wind up with. And let me tell you from first hand experience--you do NOT want to cross one of 'em. They can turn a sponge bath into a completely humiliating experience and take your temperature in places that I don't even wanna think about.

I opened my eyes, glad to see that things were stayin' put and the blurriness was gone. An annoying beeping and the feelin' of sticky things on my chest told me I was hooked up to some kind of heart monitor. I stared at the light over my head for a minute until someone cleared their throat. I turned my head and saw a guy with gray hair and a white coat standing off to my right. Guess they dress 'em like that so you know who's the doctor.

"Detective Starsky, I'm Dr. Franklin. How are you?"

I started to prop myself up on my arms, a little dismayed to find 'em weak and rubbery. "I dunno, Doc. How 'bout you tell me?"

He pushed me back down without having to work hard at it. "Not yet, Detective. Your body is still throwing off the effects of a very powerful narcotic. Let's take it slow."

Hearing him use the word 'narcotic' was like a kick in the teeth. Suddenly all the fear that had been waitin' in the wings while I distracted myself by thinking how much I hate hospitals came crashing down on me, and I could hear the echo of Stocking Mask's laughter.

You got twenty-four hours to live, Pig. Count 'em. Twenty-four.

I felt a little light-headed for a minute, and it must've shown on my face 'cause the Doc was at my side in an instant and a nurse had her pretty little manicured hand wrapped around my wrist, takin' my pulse. 

"Detective?"

"'M all right." I sucked in a gulp of air and forced the fear back into the box where I keep emotions I don't want to deal with. 

Later. Not here, not now, and especially not in front of strangers.

I shook myself free of the well-meaning angel and looked Franklin squarely in the eye. "Doc, I need you to level with me. Whoever did this, drugged me, made some threats. I gotta know if he was just blowin' hot air."

I knew things were not good when Franklin's eyes skittered away from mine. "Suppose you tell me just what kind of threats."

Doctors. Sometimes I swear they're not so different from the street punks Hutch and I bust. Both've perfected the art of answerin' questions without sayin' a thing.

"He indicated that he'd done something to decrease my life expectancy." I didn't try to mask the sarcasm. "The figure he gave me was twenty-four hours."

"Detective Starsky..."

I cut him off before he could waste more time. "Just Dave. And I want it straight."

He pursed his lips, then nodded. "Analysis of your blood showed two separate chemical compounds. One was, of course, a sedative. Something that would render you incapable of fighting your attacker."

"And the other?"

"A toxin. Most likely from the organic chloride family."

The fear was banging on the lid of the box, but I just sat on it.

"Toxin. You mean like a poison?"

Franklin poked his glasses up on his nose with his index finger. "Yes."

"Just what will this toxin do to me?"

Franklin pushed at his glasses. "It blocks the impulses in the central nervous system and..."

"English please, Doc."

He sighed. "Excessive perspiration, muscle cramps, difficulty breathing, impaired vision..."

I chewed that over for a minute. The simple answer to the problem didn't jive with the expression on the doc's face, but I had to say it.

"Well...if it's a poison, then there must be an antidote. Right?"

"Unfortunately, Detective..."

"Dave."

He blinked at me, momentarily derailed. "Dave. Unfortunately, it isn't that simple."

"Never is," I muttered under my breath.

"There are many variations of the particular compound used. And we can't formulate an antidote with any certainty without knowing the exact composition. That requires the original solution."

Twenty-four hours, Pig. Count 'em.

"Doc." My voice quavered. I stopped, swallowed hard, and continued. "Are you tellin' me there's nothin' you can do? That I'm gonna die?"

I almost felt sorry for Franklin. He squirmed a bit, but then he met my eyes. "I'm telling you we'll need to run more tests. There are methods of narrowing down the possibilities. But..."

"Odds."

"Medicine is not an exact science, Detective, I..."

"Dave. Odds."

He sighed and his shoulders slumped. "Ninety percent. Against."

Well, I asked for it. Suddenly I was ice cold in spite of the glaring lights overhead. I was gonna die. It was practically written in stone, there was nothing anyone...

Hutch.

"My partner," I said, my voice hoarse. When Franklin looked at me blankly I added, "Tall, blond, makin' a pain in the ass of himself?"

Understanding flooded Franklin's face and for the first time I saw his lips actually quirk a little in the hint of a smile. "He's right outside. I'll get him."

"NO!"

That pulled him up short, like jerking a puppet's strings. His eyebrows lifted in a silent question.

"Doc, I need... I can't..."

All at once my eyes were burning and my throat felt like there was steel bands around it. I glared up at the light, breathing in through my mouth and outta my nose. When I was sure I could go on without blubberin', I looked back at the doctor.

"I need you to tell Hutch what you just told me."

Franklin frowned and started to shake his head. "I really think it would be better coming from you. He's your friend, he..."

"He's my best friend," I said fiercely. "Close as a brother--closer. That's why I can't tell him." I tried to grin but I think it came out pretty lopsided. "I hate soapy scenes." The smile slid off my face. "Please."

The doc just looked at me for a long time. Hutch evidently got tired of coolin' his heels out in the hall, 'cause he chose that exact minute to come walking in. He was wearing that face, the one he uses when he's been worried sick over me but ain't about to let me know it. Instead he pastes on this big, dopey grin.

"Hi, Buddy."

All I could manage was a little nod before I had to turn away. If I kept looking at him, seeing that smile, I'd never be able to hold it together. I looked up at Franklin. Begging.

He adjusted his glasses and glanced at the monitor. "There's no affect on your heart yet. We'll be sending you upstairs for some more tests. You can sit up and rest for awhile now." Then he walked over toward Hutch.

"Doc, I'd like to talk to him."

That's my partner, not about to let hell, high water, or a guy in a white coat keep him from me when I'm hurt. I held my breath.

Franklin stopped him with a hand to his arm. "In a minute. But first I'd like to ask you a few questions." He steered him out into the hall without looking back at me.

Thank God.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Hutch  
~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two hours. That's how long I waited, never letting the treatment room door out of my sight. I think they were the longest two hours of my life.

Have you ever noticed how Time is fluid? Oh sure, I know that it's supposed to be a constant, a universal invariant. But sometimes I think that's all just a load of crap. That we don't really understand Time at all, are just as mixed up as the folks who thought the Earth was flat. Because, I swear to God, Time never passes at exactly the same rate.

Take our all too infrequent vacations, for example. One minute I've got three or four glorious days spread before me--plenty of time for hiking, fishing, and baiting my city-loving partner who I've conned into accompanying me. Blink of an eye and it's over, with only Starsky's scratching and whining about bug bites to prove that we ever left Metro. You just can't tell me that Time didn't play a dirty trick by speeding up.

It goes both ways, of course. If Time can fly by like a hawk on the wing (or Starsky in the Torino), it can also creep along like molasses in Minnesota. Several times during those two long hours I was certain it had stopped altogether, only the hands on my watch convincing me otherwise.

Barely.

They'd let me stay with him in the beginning. Well...they hadn't been able to make me leave. Starsky was out cold for the entire trip in the ambulance, but when they finally got him into the ER and started working on him he woke up a little. No wonder, with two nurses and a doctor hooking him up to an EKG, drawing blood, and checking his temperature and blood pressure. I can only imagine what I'd do, waking up dizzy and disoriented as hell with all of that going on around me. Probably exactly what Starsky did--panic.

Poor guy couldn't move, couldn't really talk. Best he could do was mumble something so garbled that no one could understand. The doc and the nurses just kind of ignored it and kept going about their business. They were so wrapped up in their jobs that no one thought to kick me out, so I just stood back and watched. 

Until I saw the hand.

Starsky's left hand, the one he does everything with, was opening and closing as if he was trying to grab hold of something. Or searching for something. And suddenly I understood. It was me he was reaching for, and my name that he kept trying to say over and over.

I'll admit it now--shoving that nurse out of the way was pretty rude. But at the time I didn't notice. My senses had narrowed until all I could see was those pitiful, grasping fingers; all I could hear was Starsky trying to call for me. I bullied my way to my partner's side, slid my hand into his, and started talking into his ear. I can't even remember what I said. Some of it probably didn't make a whole lot of sense, but I doubt he could really understand me anyway. What was important, what I knew he needed, was to hear my voice. To know he was safe. That I was right there with him, and I wouldn't leave.

The nurse was understandably ticked off, and the doctor wasn't much happier. He put his hand on my shoulder, clamping down hard.

"Sir, I'm afraid family isn't allowed in the treatment room. You'll have to leave."

I never let go of Starsky's hand, though my whole body stiffened. I turned my head and gave the doctor a look I've perfected for when it's my turn to play "bad cop."

"My name is Detective Hutchinson, and this man is my partner. As long as he needs me, I'm not going anywhere. Now if you want to keep that hand, I'd suggest taking it off my shoulder. Right now."

He let go like he'd been burned, and when he adjusted his glasses I saw his hand shake a little. "Very well. We'll work around you--for now anyway."

I could see Starsky was fading out again. His hand would start to go limp, then tighten up as if he was fighting sleep just so he could hang on to me.

"It's okay, buddy." I kept my voice soft and low, not only to soothe Starsky but to try and maintain a shred of privacy. "You can let go if you need to. The doctor's going to take care of you and I'll always be close by. No one's going to hurt you any more--they'll have to go through me first."

Wasn't long before he was out for the count again, and I no longer had a good reason to keep the doctor, whose name turned out to be Franklin, from kicking me out. And that's just about when Time decided to slow to a snail's pace.

Finally I couldn't stand it another minute. I snuck a peek through the window and was surprised to see Starsky awake and talking to Dr. Franklin. I figured that was my cue to join them, since it didn't seem like Franklin was going to issue a personal invitation.

My stomach felt twisted into knots, but I made sure to plaster on a smile before I pushed open the door. Starsky turned to look at me, and I was struck by the fact that his face held absolutely no expression.

"Hi, buddy." I silently congratulated myself for sounding relaxed.

The corners of Starsky's mouth turned up just a bit and he raised his chin. The next minute the blank face was back, though, and it seemed like his eyes were everywhere but on me. He gave the doctor an odd look and Franklin started talking, but he was fiddling with his glasses like he'd done when I threatened him. Something about that bothered me, but I needed to concentrate on what the doctor was saying to Starsky.

"There's no effect on your heart yet. We'll be sending you upstairs for some more tests. You can sit up and rest for a while now."

Franklin turned and walked toward me. I held up a hand to stop him. "I need to talk to him."

"In a minute. But first I'd like to ask you a few questions."

I was chomping at the bit to talk to Starsky, especially now that he was lucid, but we'd each been injured in the line of duty often enough that I knew the drill. Questions about insurance, the limits for active duty--all the red tape. Starsky and I had handled it for each other so many times it was routine.

Except when Franklin got me out in the hallway, he didn't start asking any of the questions I expected. Nothing about filling out paperwork or instructions after discharge. Instead he asked me if we'd been partners a long time. Said Starsk had told him I was his best friend. I was only half-listening at first, my mind on catching the creep who was responsible for hurting my partner and making the last few hours a living hell. It didn't help that I couldn't figure out where Franklin was headed, why he'd dragged me out into the hallway to discuss my friendship with Starsky. When he finally cut to the chase, I felt like I'd been sucker punched.

"I don't think your friend is going to make it. His relatives, any other close friends should be notified."

"Wha..." I almost laughed at first--must be some kind of a bad joke, right? Then I got angry. "Well of course he's going to make it, you've got him in a hospital, don't you, you're running tests on him, he..." Franklin was stone-faced, but compassion shone through his eyes. My stomach plunged as if I'd just dropped thirty stories in a runaway elevator. "Does he know?"

"He asked me to tell you." Franklin's eyes crinkled. "Said he hates 'soapy scenes.'"

God, I could hear it, could picture Starsky saying it. He's a funny one, my partner. Emotions on his sleeve when it comes to those he cares about, always ready to share their pain. But when it comes to his own hurt, his own fear, his own heartbreak, Starsky holds his cards close and guards them jealously.

He held me, sweat with me, ached with me, and even cried with me when I was so deep in withdrawal I could barely remember my own name. It still shames me when I think about how I treated him during that time, though I know he's never held it against me. Did he really think I'd let him get away with keeping me at arm's length?

Think again, Starsk.

This time when I walked back into the treatment room I couldn't quite muster a full smile. Starsky was sitting up, bare legs dangling over the edge of the gurney, and he looked...fine. Completely normal, no different from the man who dropped me off at my place last night and roared home to catch one of those bad horror movies on TV. For a split second a cruel little glimmer of hope rose up in my chest and a seductive voice whispered in my head.

Maybe the doctor's wrong, maybe he doesn't know what he's talking about. Doctors make mistakes all the time, look at that guy in Detroit who had the wrong kidney removed. Maybe...

I remembered Franklin's face, the way he met my gaze straight on, with a mixture of bluntness and compassion. And that spiteful little ray of hope turned on me, the edges sharp like a shard of broken glass.

Starsky was dying. And somehow, some way, I was going to save him. Nothing else mattered.

"How ya feeling, huh?" I couldn't seem to meet his eyes. I couldn't seem to keep mine from checking the clock.

"Okay. Could even think I dreamed it all." His voice told me he felt as awkward as I. What is it with men anyway? We care deeply but we have such a hard time expressing it. 

Stick to the case, to finding the guy with the answers, I told myself. I tried not to sound like I was questioning a victim, but it was hard. Everything was mixed up, wrong. Starsky wasn't supposed to be the one giving a statement. The one assaulted and... 

And the crazy part was, I could tell he was trying to make things easier on me. As if I were the one handed a death sentence! Using expressions like "not rowing with both oars at the time" to distract me from the horror of picturing him drugged and helpless while the creep injected him. Helpless, but not oblivious. If I... 

When. When I got my hands on the punk, I planned on making him very, very sorry.

When Starsky admitted that he thought he knew the guy, I savagely stomped on the hope that wanted to return.

The facts. Concentrate on the facts.

"Doctor Franklin. What about the twenty-four hours? Does it hold?"

"If it's a progressive type poison, yes, its term could be predictable. The blood sample taken at the puncture indicates a poisonous compound--probably of the organic chloride grouping. Unfortunately, it could be any one of fifty varieties, and we can't prescribe the antidote with any certainty until we know the exact composition. Is that plain enough?" Franklin's expression was apologetic.

I just wanted to be somewhere else. Any place but in a hospital, listening to the high odds against my best friend living to watch another cheesy horror movie.

Starsky remained stoic through Franklin's little speech, but the white-knuckled grip of his fingers on the gurney betrayed him. "The part about the poisonous compound was, thank you."

I, on the other hand, felt anger rising inside of me like a living creature. I was abruptly furious with Franklin, and the medical profession in general. 

"You know, it's amazing. You're well, you think they've got a miracle cure for everything. You get sick, they can't even cure the common cold." I knew I was snarling, unloading my frustration on the wrong man, but I didn't care.

Franklin must have had plenty of experience dealing with upset family members. Rather than taking offense, he started spouting his suggestions for trying to treat Starsky. None of it sounded particularly pleasant. Starsky's bleak expression broke through my fury and I placed a hand on his shoulder, wishing I could offer so much more.

Four years with the man, and though in some ways I know him better than I know myself, he can still surprise me. I wasn't prepared for his cool, controlled reply.

"Doc, pursuing our own, as they say, line of expertise, my partner feels he can deduce certain things faster than you can. I mean, that's part of his job."

I saw right where he was headed and tried to cut him off at the pass.

"That's right, but you're not going anywhere."

No one ever said my partner wasn't stubborn as a mule. "Look, you're thinkin' the same thing I am. We look for some flake with a mean laugh who knows exactly what was in that shot, right?"

Stubbornness I can resist, but not that pleading, vulnerable face. More than once Starsky has left me in awe of his courage under fire. Today it staggered me. He was trying so hard to keep it together, to think things through logically. To be a cop and not a victim.

"Right."

"Well, while I'm still feelin' okay..."

How could I possibly say no?

"We find him and ask him."

Doctor Franklin, of course, was not pleased with the turn of events. He pulled off his glasses and started arguing, trying to convince Starsky to stay put and let him do his job. My partner didn't seem fazed by his warnings, but I was already on shaky ground and questioning my own decision. Starsky, still in that calm, practical voice, cut to the chase.

"Doc, I appreciate what you're sayin', but what it really comes down to is one question. Can you guarantee that if I stay here you're gonna be able to come up with the answer in time?"

Now there was a question I was anxious to hear the answer to. If Franklin felt he had a good chance, some level of confidence that he could crack the code to this poison and cure Starsky...

The doctor's eyes slid off to the right and then dropped to the floor. So much for that theory. Starsky just plowed ahead.

"Okay, then I'd like to take a shot at it. Now if we don't score by, uh..." his eyes darted to the clock on the wall, "ten o'clock tonight, I'll come back and give you another crack at it, okay?

My chest tightened at his words. Oh God, Starsky, what are we doing?

Franklin just raised his eyebrows and dipped his head, obviously not happy but knowing when he'd been beaten. Starsky turned to me without stopping to take a breath.

"Find my pants."

It threw me for a minute, but I rallied. "Ah...got your watch." I pulled it out and offered it to him.

Starsky put on a wounded expression, as if I'd insulted that striped tomato of his. "You forgot my pants?"

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. His pants? I find him out cold on the floor and he really expected me to have remembered to bring him a change of clothes?

"You mean you want me to hit the streets with no pants, no badge, no gun, no dignity? Whatsa matter with you?" When I still couldn't come up with a snappy reply, Starsky turned to Franklin. "You believe him?" He stabbed a finger at me and stalked out of the room, dripping with righteous indignation.

Franklin, mystified by my partner's behavior, just gave his head a little shake and put his glasses back on. And then it all clicked into place and I saw exactly what my friend was up to. Smokescreens and mirrors. Get me all worked up over a pair of lousy pants and I might not worry so much about the poison slowly working its way through his body.

Ah, Starsky. You don't have to do this.

Well, the least I could do was play along. For now.

I hurried after him. "You know, you're right, Starsk? I shoulda left you lying on the floor while I decided which pair of your equally crummy blue jeans to pack." Heads turned as my friend stomped past, his gown flapping in the breeze.

Dear God, I love him is what I thought.

"They're all lookin' at ya," is what I said.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Starsky  
~~~~~~~~~~~~

It felt good to be out of the hospital, behind the wheel and taking charge instead of handin' control over to a bunch of people with no sense of humor and a never-ending supply of needles. Back in the treatment room, when the doc was breaking the bad news, I almost felt too scared to move. It wasn't the thought of dyin'--though I gotta admit I'm pretty addicted to breathing. I mean, Hutch and me, we face that possibility every time we strap on our guns and hit the streets. A cop who ain't afraid of catching a stray bullet while busting up a robbery, or gettin' knifed by some strung-out hype desperate for a fix, is either crazy or just plain stupid. It goes with the badge.

That doesn't mean you gotta dwell on it. Spend all your time worryin' about your own skin and you'd not only be a danger to yourself, but to your partner. I guess what I'm saying is you gotta look Death in the eye, tip your hat, and go about your business. And I'd always been able to do that, 'til now.

This...this was different. My body slowly but surely falling apart, betraying me. Excruciating pain, losing my eyesight, my ability to even suck in a breath of air? And Hutch, my partner, my best friend, the guy who'd step in front of a truck if it'd save my life, forced to watch it all, knowin' he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

Probably blame himself, too. If there's one trip Blondie's got down to perfection, it's guilt.

Sometimes I could swear he had a Jewish mother.

Hutch picked up the mic and called R & I, askin'--no, tellin' poor Charlie to pull all our cases from the last five years and put 'em on our desks. By the time we got there, no less.

Now don't get me wrong, I was feeling every tick of the clock too. But do you have any idea how many wiseguys Hutch and me have busted over the last five years? It didn't really surprise me when Charlie started squawkin'.

Around the station word is that I got a helluva temper, while Hutch tends to be more calm and easy-going. Of course, that's all a load-a bull. Okay, I'll admit I got a short fuse, but Hutch ain't no ambassador of good will either. Give him flack, especially when he's operating in what I like to call "white knight mode," and you better protect the family jewels. Poor Charlie had no idea what he was openin' himself up to.

"Collins, we'll be there in twenty minutes, that's how long you've got." He said it in that cold voice he usually saves for rapists and killers.

I turned to look at him, keeping my voice light. "Hey, take it easy. He's got no way of knowin' what's goin' down." 

That's what I said out loud. My eyes tried to tell him more, the words I felt deep down inside but couldn't speak.

I know you're scared--I'm scared too. Don't fall apart on me, I need you too much.

Hutch didn't say a word to me, but some of the lines around his eyes smoothed and his death grip on the mic relaxed.

"Do it, will ya Charlie? It's that important. Captain Dobey'll confirm. Have him call Receiving Hospital and check on Starsky."

He put the mic down and I felt his eyes boring into the side of my head. "Have any second thoughts about leaving the hospital?"

Oh, just a couple hundred in the last ten minutes.

I kept my eyes on the road. "Do you?"

Hutch glanced out the passenger window. "I could be wrong." His sharp gaze returned to my face. "But then I'll be walking around tomorrow."

Hard not to wince at that. I was tryin' to keep my mind on the here and now. Thinking about what lay around the bend was too scary. "Well, the doc was pretty straight about our chances."

"Yeah."

For some reason, I'm not sure why, I had a sudden, clear memory of another time in our lives when it felt like the whole world had turned on us and left us hangin' out to dry. I don't know if the smile reached my lips, but I felt it in my heart.

"As I see it, it's who do we trust time."

Once again Hutch didn't say anything. But then, he really didn't need to.

Me and thee. I don't think they've invented a word that could define what's between us. I could say he's like a brother, but Nick and I have never shared the kind of bond that's between Hutch and me. Nicky is my little brother, and I love him, but I don't understand him--I never have. And he sure as hell don't know the first thing about me. To tell you the truth, sometimes I'm not even so certain he likes me.

Hutch does. Oh, he plays jokes on me, gives me a hard time, but his eyes tell me the truth. We've laughed together. And we've cried together. I can't say that about any other person in this whole crazy, messed up world. It's scary, bein' known that well, all your hidden fears and deep, dark secrets. No one can hurt us as bad as we can hurt each other. And we have.

It ain't exactly like the kind of love I have with Ma either, though there are similarities. I know Ma'll keep lovin' me no matter what I say or do. But with Ma, there's also the flip side--responsibility. I felt it the most when Pop died. Suddenly it all fell on my shoulders to be the man of the house. I used to envy Nick 'cause Ma would still baby him like a little boy. From the night Pop was killed, she treated me like a man.

But I wasn't.

Hutch? He takes me as I am and don't ask for much in return. And he lets me lean on him...a lot. It's not easy for me. Usually by the time I do, it's 'cause I got nothin' left. Sometimes he comforts me, and sometimes he gives me a swift kick in the pants. And I trust him to know which one I need.

Me and thee.

I was still thinkin' deep thoughts when Hutch suddenly sat up straighter and pointed across the street.

"Hey, is that Huggy?"

I hung a U-turn and pulled up to the sidewalk where Hug was standing, then followed Hutch outta the car. Huggy tipped his head when he saw us, those teeth flashing in a grin.

"Hey, what it is?"

"Got a job for you." 

Hutch wasn't gonna let grass grow under his feet, I could see that. Problem is, even though Huggy's our friend, you gotta handle him right. Nobody likes bein' told what to do, 'specially a...businessman like Hug.

"Hey, I'm gainfully employed."

Hutch and I made a point of lookin' Huggy and his less than cosmopolitan surroundings over before we both raised our eyebrows in a "you can't be serious" expression. Huggy was not amused.

"Honest! Got a job as a travel agent. It's a hard buck but an honest one. Need any airplane tickets?"

Hutch didn't crack a smile. "What have you heard about a hit going down?"

I swallowed but it wasn't easy. My throat felt like the Sahara and that disconnected feeling, the one that came over me when the doc told me about the poison, was back. Who'd a thought I'd be investigating my own murder? It was like some crazy movie on the late, late show.

"On who?" Huggy asked.

I looked at him, careful not to show how I was feeling. "Me. Sparing the grim details, some guy got into my house last night and gave me a shot."

Well, it ain't often you can surprise Hug. I just wished I could enjoy that look on his face. Under the circumstances, it wasn't too funny.

"You gotta be puttin' me on."

I shook my head. "I don't think he was puttin' me on either. Need your help, Hug."

What you really need is a miracle whispered a nasty little voice in my head. I mentally flipped it the bird.

"You gotta ask? I'll do anything I can. Something'll turn."

I didn't want to see that expression on Huggy's face, or the look in his eyes. I hated it, and I loved it.

I refused to look at my watch the rest of the drive to Metro.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Hutch  
~~~~~~~~~~~~

I tried to keep my eyes on the scenery out the window. It wasn't easy--I'd catch them wandering over to Starsky like steel to a magnet. He seemed to be feeling just fine, but I couldn't help watching and waiting for the first signs of the poison, feeling like some kind of vulture.

We had an argument about who would drive. I'd called Dobey at the crack of dawn, explained what was going down, and asked him to have one of our boys in blue drop Starsky's Torino at the hospital. I don't know what came over me, asking for the striped tomato instead of my own car. Guess I was so worried about Starsk at that point I would've done just about anything to make him feel better.

Either that, or I was suffering from sleep deprivation and couldn't be held responsible for my actions.

When we reached the Torino, Starsky still grumbling about his missing pants while giving an old lady in a wheelchair a free show, he crossed to the driver's side and held out his hand.

I just stared at him as if he'd asked me to eat one of those greasy burritos he's so crazy about.

He glared right back. "Keys!"

My head was moving before his mouth stopped forming the word. "Uhn-uh. I'll drive."

His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. "It's my car, and I'll drive."

I was getting truly pissed at him now. I understood what he was trying to do when he yelled at me about the pants, but this was going too far. An hour ago he'd been in la-la land, and now he intended to get behind the wheel? And what about the poison? What if it started affecting him while he was hotrodding down the street? No way was I going to sit there and...

The hand reaching for the keys trembled. Just a slight tremor, and Starsky immediately clenched it into a fist, but it was already too late. His guard had slipped enough for me to snatch a glimpse of what lay beneath the surface anger--a man desperately afraid of losing control. Who needed to take charge, even of something as simple as driving his own car.

I put my hand on his arm, no longer angry. "Starsk, I'm just not sure..."

"Please, Hutch." He turned his head, but I could see his throat working. "You gotta trust me to know what I need. And right now, I need to drive my own car."

There are times when, despite what my head tells me, despite common sense, I simply can't say no to him. He's like the tide, an irresistible force of nature that pulls me along no matter what good intentions I may have for standing still. Sometimes it's the child in him. Starsky doesn't talk much about the time after his father died, but I've been able to piece together a pretty good picture of how much his life changed. He was a kid forced to grow up fast--too fast. That's probably why there's a little boy still hiding inside him. Cynical and street tough as he can be after all we've seen, in many ways he holds onto the wonder and simplicity of a child. Which is precisely why this hardened cop, fed up with the euphoric sentimentalism of the Christmas season, braves the crowds every year to get his partner a present.

Other times, it's his spirit that does me in. Starsky is a truly good person, and that's a rare find. Believe me, I know. I see the dregs of society every day, enough hatred, selfishness, envy, and mean-spiritedness to destroy what little faith I still have in humanity. Starsky keeps the spark alive. You know, most cops will spout the standard party line about the reason for becoming a police officer--wanting to make a difference, to help people, to protect the underdog. Starsky is the genuine item. The real deal. He's a sucker for someone in need, willing to not only hand over the shirt off his back, but to risk his own life if necessary. Like I said before, when the chips are down, he's the bravest person I know.

He'd been through the wringer that morning, been given news no man should have to face. A lot of guys would just lay down, either give in to self-pity or give up completely. Yet there was Starsky, barely an hour after taking a sucker punch to the gut, picking himself up and dusting himself off, that damn stubborn streak driving him to hunt for his own killer.

How in the hell could I say no?

I tossed him the keys, irritated by the lump in my throat. "Better get in the car before you get arrested for indecent exposure."

Starsky glanced over his shoulder at a couple of staring nurses, obviously on their way home after the night shift. "Hey, ain't you ever heard of Chippendales? Plenty of ladies'd pay money to see a show half this good."

"Just goes to prove there's no accounting for taste." It felt great to be on familiar ground, Starsky acting like his old self. If only...

I shook my head and headed for the passenger door. Thoughts like that were a dead end, a waste of time.

We stopped by his place so that he could swap the white dress for a ratty pair of blue jeans and pick up his gun. Then we headed for headquarters, sun in the sky and Starsky behind the wheel, just like any other day. Except, of course, it wasn't.

Starsky caught me checking up on him from the corner of my eye and his brow furrowed. "Willya quit lookin' at me like I've grown an extra head? You're makin' me jumpy. I crash this car and we won't need to find my late-night visitor."

Having him snap at me like that was actually just what I needed. It reminded me he was still there, still alive. That old saying "Where there's life, there's hope" might be trite, but it gave me something to grab onto. I reached for the radio, figuring I'd get the ball rolling before we got to the station.

"This is Zebra 3, patch me through to R & I."

Normally I'd have made some small talk with Charlie Collins. He's a good guy, and he loves talking about his new granddaughter. To hear him tell it you'd think the sun rose and set, just for her. I didn't feel much like shooting the breeze, though, all things considered. I figured just this once Charlie would have to swap stories with somebody else.

Somebody whose partner wasn't slowly dying right next to him.

"Charlie, this is Hutch. Pull out every case we've worked on in the past 5 years and have them on our desks when we get down there."

I didn't really expect Charlie's response, though I guess I should've.

"No chance, Hutch. Everybody wants everything yesterday. Have you any idea of our workload?" Indignation dripped from his voice--I didn't have to be there to see the scowl on his face.

I'd be damned if he was going to give me any lip about those files. Our request better override any others or I'd go down there personally and make sure it happened. With my gun, if necessary.

"Collins, we'll be there in 20 minutes, that's how long you've got." I used my interrogation voice, the one that went with the "bad cop" face I'd given the doctor earlier.

Starsky looked over and gently reminded me I was kicking the dog. It took the wind out of my sails and reminded me who I was talking to. Charlie deserved better.

I did my best to patch things up before I signed off, then went back to not watching Starsky. Finally I couldn't take it any longer--I had to ask the question that had been bugging me since we left Doctor Franklin and his gadgets behind.

"Have any second thoughts about leaving the hospital?"

He wouldn't look at me but I saw his fingers squeeze the steering wheel more tightly. "Do you?"

Thanks for turning the tables on me, Starsk. I wanted YOU to be the one answering that question.

"I could be wrong. But then I'll be walking around tomorrow."

I had to deflect, to put off the feelings the question stirred up. Starsky and I are both real good at sidestepping emotional land mines with a smart mouth. Helps avoid those "soapy scenes."

Starsky didn't take the bait. "Well, the doc was pretty straight about our chances."

"Our." Not "my." The fact that I knew he hadn't even thought about it, that it had come out as natural as saying my name, made my chest feel tight and my eyes burn.

"Yeah."

Starsky still didn't look at me, but something in his expression changed. I would've sworn he was smiling, but his mouth never moved. "As I see it, it's who do we trust time."

I looked out the window and kept my breathing nice and steady. Starsky wasn't looking for an answer--he knew the list was short.

Me and thee

The only person I'd ever trusted enough to let all the way inside. Who knew the dark as well as the light. Who celebrated my successes as enthusiastically as if they were his own. Someone who not only put up with my black moods, but cared enough to try and drag out of them--sometimes kicking and screaming. Who would trek through the woods and eat health food if it would keep me happy.

Who would take a bullet if it would keep me alive.

I couldn't imagine life without him. 

I wouldn't.

Just then a familiar figure caught my eye and distracted me from my morose thoughts. I straightened up and took a closer look.

"Hey, is that Huggy?"

Starsky didn't waste breath answering me, he just slammed the Torino into a U-turn, tires screeching, and pulled up to the corner where Huggy was standing.

You would've thought I'd learned something after riding Collins so hard, but that itchy, impatient feeling was back. I plunged in with both feet, and Huggy responded accordingly--by dragging his.

"Got a job for ya."

"Hey, I'm gainfully employed."

Gainful employment. As a travel agent. Huggy tries on new careers like a stockbroker tries on suits. It almost coaxed a smile onto my face when I realized Starsky and I were giving him the same look of disbelief.

One thing I can say about Hug, though. His loyalty is absolute. When the chips are down, when Starsky and I need his help the most, he turns from a streetwise hustler to a powerful ally. A lot of people underestimate him, and that's a big mistake.

I watched his face as Starsky gave him the bare bones of what had happened, and I knew he'd use every means at his disposal--every snitch and hooker, junkie and hustler--to turn something for Starsky and me. I just hoped it would be enough.

We'd already lost six hours.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Starsky  
~~~~~~~~~~~~

When we got to Metro we saw Charlie was doin' his best. The stack of files on our desks might not've been five years' worth, but it was a good start. We wound up hauling 'em into Captain Dobey's office so we could spread out a little and get comfortable. It was pretty hard not to feel discouraged when you looked at all those folders, but each of us took a stack and dug in.

Charlie brought in the last of the files as we were sittin' there reading. He set 'em on Dobey's desk, but turned to me before he left.

"Sorry about the static."

"'S okay." Last thing I wanted was for Charlie to feel guilty. I'd looked at the clock before I could stop myself, and I didn't like what I saw. "Eleven thirty-six."

Seven and a half hours gone and there we were, sittin' on our tails, buried in paperwork. I was tryin' hard to concentrate, but it wasn't easy.

"Always did think you were a clock watcher."

Ha, ha. Excuse me if I didn't exactly appreciate Dobey's sense of humor. I glared at him before looking down at the file in my hands.

"Now come on, Dave. There must be something you remember about this guy. Eyes? Hair? Build?"

Oh man. Things really were looking grim if Dobey was calling me by my first name. I couldn't look at him, had to lighten things up somehow.

"Ya hear that? He called me Dave," I said to Hutch, who was sitting behind me. Sitting in just the right spot so he could keep an eye on me without me seeing him. 

Gimme a break, Hutch! How dumb do you think I am? 

At least he picked right up on what I was tryin' to do and played along. "What some people won't do to get on a first name basis."

"Really."

I glanced up and the captain had that look on his face--the one that said he saw right through my wisecracking and still expected an answer.

Hutch and me had Dobey figured out about a week after he became our captain. See, even though he tries to come across like a tough guy, a real grizzly bear, it's mostly for show. He really cares about each and every cop reporting to him, and he's stuck his neck out for us more times than I can count.

Grizzly bear? More like Teddy bear if ya ask me.

He was still waiting so I left off readin' the file in my hands and tried to sort through the muddled pictures in my head.

"All right, let's see. Vaguely, a white male, thirty-five to fifty, medium build...any or all possibly inaccurate." I slammed the folder shut, madder than hell but unable to do much about it.

Angry at the sick bastard who violated my home, the place I'm supposed to feel safe, and got his jollies outta givin' me a death sentence.

Angry at Franklin for not bein' able to offer me something more than spending the last hours of my life layin' around a place I hate, playing human guinea pig.

But most of all, angry at myself for my own helplessness. For not bein' able to do a little thing like give a clear description of the creep. 

For not stoppin' him in the first place.

"We'll pull the computer cards and run them against that make. That way we can eliminate the, uh, short, fat, black, and female." The captain got up and headed for the door. "Then we'll run them against the in prisons, hospitals, out of towns..." He was out the door but still talking--more to himself than either of us, I think.

Not a minute later, Cheryl, who works in the lab, opened the door. "Hutch."

Hutch followed her out of the room, tossing a "Don't go away" over his shoulder at me.

Yeah, right. Like there was anyplace for me to go. Maybe I'd up and take that vacation to Tahiti I been plannin', huh? Or find myself a lady and go dancing. 

Don't know why they bothered to go into the squad room. It's not like I didn't know what I was in for, what to expect. Did they really think they were protecting me by discussing it behind a closed door?

Part of me wanted to be mad at Hutch but I didn't have the heart. I knew he was feelin' just as frustrated and helpless as me--maybe more. It's a terrible thing when a man can't back up his own partner, and this poison was a threat Hutch couldn't fight. Not with fists or a gun, anyway.

Ah, hell, maybe it was for the best that he hear the gory details from Cheryl. I sure didn't want to be the one to tell him, and pretty soon...

Pretty soon he was gonna see for himself.

Hutch gave me that dopey smile again when he came back from the squad room. Nice try, but it didn't exactly hide the fact that he looked shaken by what Cheryl had told him.

Join the club, buddy.

The captain came in right after with three names the computer had picked as most likely to be our guy. Vic Bellamy, Janos Martini, and Al Wedell. Three no-taste bums who'd be just as happy to waste Hutch and me as look at us. Reading their rap sheets, staring at their ugly mugs just fueled the anger that had been building inside of me all day. For the first time, I didn't want to catch the creep who poisoned me just to save my life.

I wanted to get my hands on him and make him pay.

Bellamy was the only one of the three that we had a current address for. Things were pretty quiet in the car on the way to his apartment. Not much to say, I guess. Both of us hopin' that somehow we'd get lucky, that good old Vic would have a hypodermic or a stocking mask stashed somewhere in his place. Both of us thinkin' about what Cheryl had told Hutch, wondering when the first signs of the poison would show up. Both of us knowing there were things to tell each other, but lacking the nerve to say 'em out loud.

Bellamy lived in an apartment building across town, in a less than reputable neighborhood. Three flights up, and Hutch took 'em at a jog. By the time we got to the top I was panting. I swiped at the moisture on my upper lip with the back of my hand and headed for number thirty-one.

I pulled my weapon and waited for Hutch to get into position. We don't even think about it any more, it's as natural as breathin'. Hutch goes high and I go low, standard operating procedure. Something I could count on, even now.

Hutch wrapped on the door with that cannon he calls a gun. "Open up! Police!"

A voice--sounded like Bellamy as far as I could remember--called out, "In a minute!"

Now I was the one feelin' antsy, and just standing there waiting for ole Vic to invite us in was gettin' on my already frazzled nerves. Right there, on the other side of that door, could be the answer we were looking for. "We'll look awfully stupid if he goes out the back," I told Hutch.

He must've agreed with me, 'cause he stepped back, giving me just enough time to flick off my safety before he kicked in the door. We both stuck our heads around the doorjamb, half expecting to see Bellamy heading down the fire escape. Or maybe a gun aimed at our heads.

Definitely not what we found.

Bellamy was sittin' in a wheelchair, his left leg encased in a cast from foot to hip. He flung his arms up in front of his face.

"Don't shoot! I told you in a minute!"

A woman with mousy brown hair dressed in a bathrobe and slippers came burstin' into the room. "Vic! What's going on?" Her voice had all the charm of ground glass.

Bellamy must've realized we weren't gonna shoot him, 'cause he went from scared to belligerent in a matter of seconds. "I dunno, ask them!"

When I could finally drag my eyes away from that shiny white cast, I saw Hutch was just as stunned as me. We just stared at each other for a long minute. My heart was thumping double time and the gun felt heavy and useless in my hand.

Hutch looked over at the woman and holstered his gun. "How long has he been in that cast?"

She tipped her chin up and her voice was ice cold. "Four weeks. Why?"

Oh God. Felt like someone sucked all the air outta my lungs and I couldn't seem to fill 'em back up. I guess I didn't realize till that minute how much I was hopin' Bellamy would be the one. Scratching him off the list left only two more chances, and the damn clock just kept tickin'.

Bellamy's lady was too fulla righteous indignation to notice. "Hey, what is this?" she demanded in that same, shrewish voice.

I looked at Hutch, not even tryin' to keep the pain and disappointment off my face. "How 'bout strike one?"

I didn't look back to see if he was following me out the door. I couldn't. About all I could manage was to put one foot in front of the other. Sometimes, to just keep movin' is the best thing you can do. And the hardest.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Hutch  
~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Charlie had done a damn good job of pulling files for us. We took them into Captain Dobey's office, supposedly so we could spread out. I knew the captain well enough to realize he was also doing his best to shield Starsky from the stares--both curious and pitying. I managed to grab a chair behind and to the left of my partner, which provided me with an unobstructed view. I could keep an eye on him without him figuring out what I was up to and getting pissed off.

He'd made it more than clear that he didn't want any special treatment--no hovering and no coddling. I respected that, I really did. In fact, I knew that if I were in his shoes, I'd feel the same way. Treating him like he was made of glass would only wind up making him feel sicker. The mind is a powerful force on the body, and the longer Starsky could function normally, the better he could fight the poison.

I knew all that--in my head. My heart was a little slower in catching up. It was torture to watch and wait, wondering when the first symptoms of the poison would start to manifest themselves. Every hitch of breath, every shift of his body put me on the alert. Could he be feeling sick? In any pain?

Would he tell me if he were?

It didn't help that I had no idea what the poison would do to him. Doctor Franklin had obviously filled my partner in on the unpleasant details before I joined them. And Starsky wasn't talking.

So once we'd reached his apartment and he was changing clothes I had put in a discreet call to Cheryl Jennings, who was a chemist in the lab at headquarters. I asked her to call the hospital and talk to Doctor Franklin, see if she could get a handle on just what we were up against. Cheryl's father was a chemistry professor at the university, a brilliant man, but unstable. His son, Cheryl's older brother, had been killed during an attempt to arrest him for dealing drugs on campus, and Professor Jennings had been having a difficult time accepting it. It was a shame, too, because he was alienating his daughter, the only child he had left.

Even though Starsky was doing an incredible job of holding himself together, I could see cracks appearing. Oh, he pulled his usual smartass routine, gave Dobey grief about using his first name, but his heart wasn't really in it. I know Starsky too well for him to fool me. To tell you the truth, I don't think he fooled Dobey either.

The captain left to run Starsky's description of his assailant through the computer, so it was just the two of us in the office when Cheryl beckoned me to join her in the squad room.

"Hutch."

Starsky's eyes rested briefly on Cheryl before dropping to the file in his hand. I got up quickly, feeling more than a little awkward. I knew he realized why Cheryl wanted to see me, and I knew if he objected, he'd say so, but it still felt a bit like going behind his back. I just couldn't bear the thought of hearing the unpleasant details with him sitting right there. 

I wanted to think our decision to take the conversation into the next room was based on our desire to spare Starsky. I had the nagging feeling that it was actually to spare us.

"Don't go away," I told him. Never let it be said I'm not a master at coming up with an inane remark.

I poured Cheryl and I some coffee. I was feeling the effects of the sleepless night, and it was good to be doing something.

"Whatcha got, Cheryl?"

She looked at the clipboard in her hand. "The hospital analysis of the chemical traces at the puncture. Chlorohydrine and what might be bromoacetone--they couldn't get a fix on the rest." Her voice was business-like and her face gave nothing away.

I handed her the mug of coffee. "Level with me."

"Normal body functioning depends on the central nervous system transmitting automatic impulses--to see, to breathe, to sweat, to swallow, cough..." Cheryl paused. When I nodded, she dropped her eyes and her teeth sank into her lip. "Oversimplified, certain progressive poisons attack the central system and block the impulses."

I didn't want to hear the rest, but I had to. If Starsky could face up to the worst, then so could I.

"What happens?"

Cheryl obviously didn't enjoy telling me any more than I liked hearing it. "Uncontrolled perspiration, distorted vision, loss of coordination, difficult breathing, coma. When it gets bad I can help the pain some, but..." Despite her words, her face made it obvious that any help she could give would be minimal.

Dear God. Every word was like a knife in my heart, almost more painful than I could bear. This was the load Starsky was carrying?

I tried to shake off the nearly crushing sense of hopelessness, to focus on a solution. "Cheryl, he's gonna need the best that the chemistry field can offer, right? How goes it with your father?"

She turned and set down the clipboard. "Doesn't seem to want to see me--or anybody."

Like hell.

"Can you ask him to help?" I couldn't help the edge to my voice, even though I knew Cheryl didn't deserve my anger.

She grimaced. "I've already tried, he hasn't returned my call." My expression must have screamed desperation, because she reached out to place a consoling hand on mine and gave it a little squeeze. "Look, I'll go out to the house if I have to."

I mustered a smile I didn't really feel, grateful for her support. Before this day ended Starsky was going to need every friend he had. Cheryl's determination to help, in spite of the bad blood between her and her father, meant a lot.

Starsky looked up as I re-entered the office and our eyes locked for a long moment. I could hear his thoughts. 

Now you know.

When the captain came back with the three most likely choices for Starsky's attacker, I was anxious to hit the streets. Starsky took the wheel, and I didn't bother arguing. To tell you the truth, I was still trying to process what Cheryl had told me. I wanted to talk to Starsk, to be sure he realized...aw, I don't know. That learning the specifics of what he was facing didn't change anything. That I was going to be there, right beside him through it all. And that we were going to find the sick bastard who poisoned him and the antidote.

That he would be walking around tomorrow.

I wanted to tell him all those things, but I ended up staring out the window instead. Staring, and praying to God that Vic Bellamy would turn out to be our man.

Looking back now, I could kick myself. I was so focused on Bellamy that I temporarily forgot my partner. I took the stairs at a brisk pace, Starsky with me all the way. I was on automatic pilot, operating the way we always had. It felt right.

It was when we reached the top floor and I turned toward him that it hit me. Starsky, who could normally have jogged up all three flights without breaking a sweat, was perspiring heavily, his face pale. He used the back of his hand to brush beads of moisture from his upper lip and headed down the hallway, either oblivious to my stare or ignoring it.

Uncontrolled perspiration, distorted vision, loss of coordination...

Cheryl's voice echoed in my head. Much as I wanted to brush it off, to tell myself that what I'd seen was the result of physical exertion, I knew differently. The inevitable was happening. It could only get worse.

We positioned ourselves outside the apartment door and I gave the standard police warning. I recognized Bellamy's voice, telling us to wait a minute. Part of me was surprised I could remember it, after all the punks we've busted since. Part of me was horrified at the ice-cold fury it provoked in me.

Starsky looked over at me, his expression rueful. "We'll look awfully stupid if he goes out the back."

Like hell.

Kicking in the door was satisfying--just a little too easy. The way I was feeling, I could've kept on kicking until it was nothing but a pile of sawdust. Any gratification I got disappeared when I saw Bellamy, seated in a wheelchair with an extremely broken leg. In fact, you couldn't get much more broken and still have a leg.

Damn.

Damn, damn, damn.

I looked over at Starsky and ached at the lost expression on his face. Vic and his lady were both yammering at us, demanding an explanation. All I cared about was that my partner looked like a little boy watching his shiny new balloon float away.

Anger bubbled up to replace my sorrow. "How long has he been in that cast?" I asked the woman, putting away my gun.

If possible, she managed to look even more indignant, folding her arms across her chest. "Four weeks. Why?"

I'm sorry, Starsk. I wanted it to be Bellamy too.

"Hey, what is this?" she snarled, her lip curled like a cornered stray.

Starsky looked at me, eyes weary and resigned. A sheen of perspiration coated his face and the curls brushing his forehead were damp.

"How 'bout strike one."

He turned and left before I could answer, but that was all right. There really was nothing more to say.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Starsky  
~~~~~~~~~~~~

Going back down the stairs, I managed to shake off some of the disappointment. Most of it was still there, of course. But insteada feelin' like an elephant sittin' in the middle of my chest, it sat on my shoulders, like a really heavy backpack that I had no choice but to haul along with me.

Part of what kept me goin' was the anger. That poison had become my enemy as much as the flake who gave it to me, and as long as I could still suck in a breath of air I was gonna keep fighting. There was no way in hell I'd let Hutch do this alone, without me backin' him up. And if the worst happened, if we couldn't find the antidote in time, then by God I was gonna go out kicking and screaming.

Hutch caught up with me as we stepped outta the building into fresh air that smelled great after Bellamy's stuffy apartment. It was a nice day, sunny and warm, and I couldn't help wishing I was just about any place else--even trailing Hutch through the woods. Wild animals, bug bites, and poison ivy all seemed like pretty silly things to complain about now that I might never have the chance to spend a vacation with my best friend again.

Hutch turned to me as we started down the cement steps to the sidewalk. "Got a feel on him?"

Yeah, I got a feel on him. Don't take no rocket scientist to figure out Bellamy, cast or not.

"Same as always, a crook..."

One minute my leg was there, the next it was just...gone. I stumbled on the last step and pitched forward. Would've wound up kissin' the concrete if not for Hutch. In the blink of an eye one of his hands had snagged the collar of my leather jacket and the other was braced against my shoulder, draggin' me upright. He held onto me for a minute, steadying me until he was sure I wasn't gonna lose it again.

My heart was pounding and I could hear the blood rushin' in my head. Took me a few seconds to process what had happened, and why. When I got hold of myself enough to look up at Hutch, the look on his face nearly killed me. So much tenderness and concern, so much heartache--over me.

Was I being too damn selfish, makin' him watch me slowly fall to pieces? If I'd done like the doc asked, stayed in the hospital, at least I might've spared him some grief.

Hutch kept his hand on my back, but I'm not sure if it was more for me or him. "Want me to drive?"

I had to stop this, to wipe that look off his face. I put on my best wiseguy act. "What, and get us both killed?" I sauntered around to the driver's side of the Torino, relieved that both legs were working. "Why am I tryin' to make you feel better?"

Hutch's smile, even though it was pretty weak, was worth the effort. "You know something, Starsk?" His voice was steady and strong, not that overly gentle tone he'd used a minute ago.

"What?"

"It's always toughest on the ones left behind."

See? That's why he's my best friend. A lot of people I know can't figure out how Hutch and me got to be so tight. I mean, just look at us. We're the opposite sides of the coin! Me, I'm your classic city rat, complete with Brooklyn accent. Hutch grew up in Minnesota on some kind of farm or something, a country boy through and through. I got most of my education knockin' around the streets; Hutch went to college. I'm beer, pizza, and Bela Lugosi movies; Hutch is fine wine, pheasant under glass, and the ballet.

So how is it that someone so completely opposite from me could turn out to be not only my best friend, but the most important person in my life?

Beats the hell outta me.

No, really. I don't think I could put it into words if I tried. I just know that when Hutch and me met--once we stopped hating each other long enough to get to know each other--something clicked. Maybe it's as simple as the fact that despite all the outside differences, our insides are a lot alike. 

I know I trust him enough to let him see all of me, even the parts I wouldn't show my own mother. And the deeper he's let me in and the more I've come to understand the person he is, the more I respect him and value our friendship. Hutch is the only person I've ever known I could say that about. In my experience, it don't pay to let anyone own too big a piece of you--you'll only wind up disappointed. But Hutch...he's never let me down.

"I'll believe that when I hear it from someone who went first," I answered sarcastically, getting' back in behind the wheel.

While Hutch got on the radio with Dobey, I unzipped my jacket and tried to wipe away some of the sweat on my face. It kept getting in my eyes, making 'em sting, and I could feel it trickling down my back. It was a nice warm day, but not that warm. A chunk of ice somehow found its way into my stomach. I caught myself before I could look at my watch.

The captain's voice crackled over the line. "Yeah, Hutch?"

"Scratch Bellamy." Hutch's reply was matter-of-fact.

"Okay." From the slight pause and a sigh, I could sense that the captain was almost as disappointed as us. "Listen, Cheryl's located four supply houses that handle the chlorohydrine. I'm getting teams out to them."

I saw Hutch glance over at me from the corner of my eye, but I couldn't look at him. I'd gotten myself back under control, but it was shaky around the edges.

"What about Wedell and Martini?" he asked Dobey.

"No, nothing yet."

"Well, what the HELL are you guys doing down there?"

Hutch's roar took me completely by surprise. Where had that come from? A second ago he'd been cool enough to frost the car windows; now he sounded like...

Like when we had the run-in with Vic Monte's hitmen and I was bleedin' from a gunshot to the back.

Maybe dying.

"What do you mean, what the hell am I doing?" Dobey bellowed. "Listen, Hutchinson, I...

"Now you listen to me, Captain..."

How in the hell did I end up being the cool-headed one? I reached out and took the mic before my fire-breathing partner could dig his own grave, not to mention alienate a man we both consider a friend.

Hutch turned on me. "Wait a minute, I'm not through yet."

"C'mon."

His anger actually warmed me a little, at least enough to melt that hunk of ice in my gut. It's a good feelin' to know there's someone who'd do anything to protect you--even take on a 250 pound, seriously pissed off cop. And having to be strong for Hutch took my mind off the fact that I was starting to feel kinda achy.

I raised the mic to my mouth. "Cap, you'll have to forgive Hutch. He's feelin' a bit skittish."

It did the trick. Hutch ran his hand through his hair and ducked his head, something that was almost but not quite a smile on his lips.

Dobey sighed and all the anger left his voice. "Yeah, well...tell him I am too."

Okay, it was progress. But never let it be said that I quit while I was ahead. Hutch's sheepish expression was just too good to let slide.

"Hey. Didya hear that?" Hutch made a face and stretched out a hand for the mic, but I pulled it back out of his reach. "Cap, I think Hutch wants to apologize."

"Oh, now let's not get sickening about this, huh?" Hutch growled and snatched it from me.

I couldn't help grinning to myself. Sometimes my partner is just way too fun to play with--and too easy to distract. Gettin' him irritated with me was the quickest way to sidetrack him from worrying about me.

"What about Martini's old girlfriend, Sweet Alice?" Dobey asked. "You got a current address on her?"

Hutch and I just looked at each other, feelin' like a couple of idiots. Dobey had just suggested something one of us should've come up with right away. I started up the car, glad to be moving again.

"Yeah, I've got an address," Hutch said into the mic. "Why didn't I think of that?" The second half was for me, not Dobey. "That's a good idea, Captain."

Sweet Alice is a tough one to figure out. She's what you could call a "high class" hooker--if there is such a thing. And her name ain't just a name, she really is one of the nicest people you'd want to meet. Which brings me to the tough part--why's she in the business in the first place? I mean, if she'd been a junkie with a habit to support, I'd've understood. We see a lot of those, they're a dime a dozen. Broken-down, washed-up ladies whose beauty's just a memory, if it ever existed at all. They live from fix to fix, makin' a buck anyway they can, usually on their backs.

But Sweet Alice wasn't like that. Oh, she'd seen plenty of hard times, but the streets hadn't hardened her. She'd helped us out more than once, and I'm pretty sure she had a soft spot for my partner. I know he had one for her.

Alice welcomed us like we were old friends, 'steada cops who'd just chased off her latest trick. Hutch, who'd gone in through the back door, let me in.

"Well, howdy Starsky. Y'all come on in and have a drink." With that little drawl she sounded more like a Southern belle than a hooker.

"Hiya, Sweet Alice."

"Hey, did you stop by to bust me, or just for a little friendly conversation." Her eyes lit up. "I know. You're lookin' for someone."

I smiled and nodded at her, ignoring the fact that I was starting to feel pretty lousy. I sure didn't want Sweet Alice to know what was goin' down, and if my partner thought I was hurtin' he might make me go back to the hospital.

"How do you feel about Janos?" Hutch asked her.

Sweet Alice huffed a little and rolled those big, blue eyes. "Oh my. Time heals. I just mildly hate his guts now." She chuckled a little.

"Well then you wouldn't mind telling us where he is?" I was letting Hutch do the talking since I knew Alice would be more likely to confide in him.

A little bit of fear crept onto her face, and from what I'd heard about the way Janos treated her, I could understand why. "Um...knowin' he wouldn't find out it was me that told ya about it?"

Hutch darted a quick look at me. His lips turned up a little bit but he looked sad. "Nope."

"Okay. Well, he's got a little business ingeniously called 'Sexsational Films.' He bought himself a grocery store and he's callin' it a sound stage. Somewhere on Chanon Avenue, I think. Hey! What's the matter?"

Typical. Obviously ol' Janos hadn't changed a bit. Nothing would make me happier than to go over there and bust his little operation wide open.

"Thanks, Alice." Hutch headed for the door and after a quick nod at Alice I was right behind him. Already my hopes were raisin' again, thinking Janos might be our boy.

"Hey, wait, what's the beef?" Alice persisted. "Nothin' trivial, I hope."

Hutch opened the door for me. "No, I'm afraid not."

"You all right, Starsk?"

Her question surprised me--surprised us both, I guess. I'd started out into the hallway, but I turned back. "Hmm?" I could feel Hutch starin' at me.

"Weeell, you just sweatin' all over the place. You got a fever?"

I brushed my fingers across my forehead, a little unnerved when they came away dripping. One look at Hutch's face told me he wasn't gonna be any help.

"Uh, yeah."

Too soon. God, if you're up there, let Janos be the one.

I ducked out the door before I had to face Alice or Hutch another minute.

~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Hutch  
~~~~~~~~~~~~

I caught up with Starsky just as he was leaving the building. I really wanted to say something about what had just happened, preferably something encouraging. But anything I thought of sounded incredibly lame or insensitive.

Don't give up, Starsk, we're gonna find him.

It's not the end of the world, there's still Martini and Wedell.

We've been down this far before and still come through, we'll do it again.

Yeah. Right.

I couldn't stop seeing Starsky's face when he realized that Bellamy couldn't have attacked him. Starsky can be a little kid at times, and as such, he can pout with the best of them. If I had a dime for every puppy dog face I've seen on his mug I could quit the Force and retire to the Bahamas. But this wasn't anything like that. He was trying so hard not to give in to the disappointment, to keep going in spite of such a crushing blow. 

I'd do anything to take that look off his face.

Anything.

I searched harder for something to say. "Got a feel on him?"

Yeah, I know. Brilliant. You try coming up with a profound remark when your guts are being ripped apart.

Starsky got that look on his face, the one that says, "What do you think I think?"

"Same as always, a crook..."

The word "crook" cut off midstream as Starsky took a nosedive toward the pavement. I reacted purely on instinct, one hand grabbing hold of his collar and the other pushing back against his chest. He wobbled for a minute, then seemed to regain his balance. He blinked, his expression stunned.

I kept my hand on his back, more for me than for him since he didn't appear to be in danger of falling. Thoughts were chasing each other through my brain like a dog after a cat. 

Starsky looking winded at the top of the stairs. 

Perspiring as if it were 95 degrees outside, when it couldn't be more than 80. 

His near tumble down the steps. 

The wallclock in Bellamy's apartment.

The poison wasn't just theoretical anymore--it was proving itself to be very, very real. I couldn't help wondering what it was going to feel like to watch my partner, my best friend, gradually come apart at the seams. I'd give anything to be able to make things easier for him.

Anything.

"Want me to drive?" It was pitifully inadequate, but the best I could come up with.

Starsky shrugged off my hand and ambled over to the car. "What, and get us both killed?" He circled around to the driver's side. "Why am I tryin' to make you feel better?"

Oh, Starsky. 

Even with darkness closing in from all sides, he was worried about me. We've both been known to use a little black humor when emotions start running too strong. Hell, I'd just done it myself on the way in to the station. It's like an intricate dance, with steps we both know by heart. We talk without talking. And the damnedest thing is, we always know what's really being said.

I mustered a little grin. "You know something, Starsk?"

"What?"

"It's always toughest on the ones left behind." 

See, partner? Two can play that game.

"I'll believe that when I hear it from someone who went first."

Dance completed.

I got into the Torino and picked up the mic to radio headquarters.

"This is Zebra 3 to control. Detective Hutchinson. Put me through to Dobey."

I could see Starsky--watching him out of the corner of my eye was getting to be a habit--trying to blot the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his jacket. It was a given that he'd be feeling uncomfortable by now, I just wasn't sure how much. And I sure as hell wasn't stupid enough to ask.

"Yeah, Hutch." Dobey sounded almost hopeful. I hated to burst his bubble.

"Scratch Bellamy."

He heaved a sigh and began telling me about the effort to get teams out to some pharmaceutical supply houses. That was all well and good, but not what I was hoping to hear.

"What about Wedell and Martini?"

"No, nothing yet."

I'd heard people use the expression "seeing red" before, but I'd never experienced it. At Dobey's words something inside me just snapped, and all the pent up rage and frustration came spilling out. I was sitting in a car, watching the damn poison slowly but surely choke the life out of my best friend, and Dobey couldn't even come up with a couple lousy addresses for the scum that might be responsible. I wanted to put my fist through the dashboard. I wanted to pull my gun and shoot the radio. I settled for screaming at Dobey.

I was just getting up a good head of steam when Starsky's hand covered mine and took away the mic. "Wait a minute, I'm not through yet!"

"C'mon." Soft. Reproachful.

He brought the mic to his mouth. "Cap, you'll have to excuse Hutch. He's feelin' a bit skittish." His voice was calm, almost gentle, with just a hint of amusement.

It was such a sharp contrast to the bellowing I'd just done, it affected me like a slap. I hung my head, feeling a bit bemused by the way Starsky had so efficiently taken control.

"Yeah, well...tell him I am too."

That was about the closest thing to an apology I'd ever heard from Dobey. He wasn't exactly your "touchy feely" type of guy.

Starsky seemed to be enjoying his role as peacemaker a little too much. "Hey. Didya hear that?"

I ignored him and held out my hand for the mic. Starsky pulled it away before I could get it. "Cap, I think Hutch wants to apologize."

"Oh, now let's not get sickening about this, huh?" I plucked the mic out of his hand. Now he really was starting to piss me off.

Dobey either didn't notice Starsky's antics or he'd chosen to overlook them. "What about Martini's old girlfriend, Sweet Alice. You got a current address on her?"

My jaw dropped and I turned to find Starsky looking at me with the same blank expression. 

"Yeah, I've got an address," I told Dobey when I found my voice. "Why didn't I think of that?" I asked Starsky. To finish making peace, I added, "That's a good idea, Captain."

I like Sweet Alice. I mean I genuinely like her. I know she's a hooker, but she's also a sweet, vulnerable, and very pretty lady. I know a little of her history--she confided in me once over a little beer and a lot of tears after a customer had worked her over. Her childhood was normal and happy until her father died and her mother remarried. The way her stepfather chose to enforce his 'parental responsibilities' is a crime that changed a bright, popular young girl from a small Texas town into a runaway on the L.A. streets. In another life Alice might've been a high-class fashion model. Instead she wound up a hooker.

I never stop hoping she'll find something better, but I know in my heart she never will. In Alice's mind, she's where she belongs.

I've given up trying to change it.

Rather than bursting in on her when she'd be likely to have a...friend, I had Starsky give her fair warning at the front door while I circled around back. The look of sheer terror on the John's face when he saw my badge would've been funny, if it hadn't been so sad.

Alice greeted me warmly, as always. "Hi, handsome Hutch."

I let Starsky in and Alice welcomed him with just as much enthusiasm, even offering us something to drink, which we politely refused. When I brought up Martini's name she tried to make light of it, but I could see the edge of fear in her eyes. Janos, a slimy little twirp who picked on anyone weaker than himself, had beaten Alice repeatedly until she'd finally gotten enough courage to leave him.

I had to promise her the slimeball would never know she was the one who told us where to find him. What I really wanted to do was promise he'd be missing a few teeth.

"Hey, wait a minute, what's the beef?" she asked as we tried to make a quick exit. "Nothin' trivial, I hope?"

Trivial? Only if you consider murdering my best friend to be no big deal.

"No, I'm afraid not." I got as far as pulling open the door and Starsky was halfway into the hallway when Alice stopped us cold.

"You all right, Starsk?" Warmth and real concern colored her words.

Starsky turned back, his face expressionless. "Hmm?"

"Weeeell, you're just sweatin' all over the place. You got a fever?"

Starsky touched his forehead and stared at the droplets on his fingers, then looked at me as if I could provide some kind of answer. Unfortunately the giant boulder in my throat made breathing difficult and speaking impossible. 

He looked back at Alice and nodded, trying hard to offer her a little smile. "Yeah."

I followed him out the door. Fortunately, by the time we reached the car I'd managed to swallow the boulder and I could breathe again.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Starsky  
~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hutch didn't say a word when we got in the car, but I could hear those little wheels spinnin' in that thick skull of his. He drummed his fingers on his knee and pretended to look out the window, but I'd've bet he wasn't seeing a darn thing. 

I just concentrated on driving and hoped like hell he'd keep his mouth shut. I knew how worried he must be, and that he was probably dyin' to ask how I was feeling--no pun intended. But that wasn't what I needed from him right then. I needed to keep moving, keep swimming against the current, 'cause if I stopped I was goin' under and it didn't seem likely I'd be comin' back up.

Eventually I guess he couldn't stand it any longer. His eyes left off perusing the street and locked onto me instead. "Alice was right, partner, you don't look so good. Maybe it's time we..."

"DON'T." I didn't expect for it to come out sounding like that. Like when I warn a punk not to pull his gun.

Hutch kinda faltered, as surprised as me. "Starsk..."

"I mean it, Hutch."

Sometimes the most important quality for bein' a friend is knowing when to push and when to back off. Hutch looked at me for a long time. Just when I was convinced he was gonna take me to Metro, or worse yet, the hospital, he pressed his lips together and went back to looking out the window.

"Chanon's up ahead on the left. If I know our boy Janos, he'll have a couple of goons standing guard out front." He didn't sound angry, just tired.

I nodded to let Hutch know I heard, but it took me a few minutes before I could speak. "Hutch?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks."

We pulled up to the curb, and sure enough, a couple of two-bit losers were loungin' around on the sidewalk. Hutch walked past them to the door, then turned around.

"Oops. We gotta go around back."

We headed for the alley that would take us to the back door, but Mutt and Jeff stepped in front of us. Hutch smiled at 'em like they were boy scouts and not lowlife scum.

"Would you mind moving?"

Mutt and Jeff just stared at us with smug expressions plastered on their ugly faces.

I held out my badge. "Does that handle it?" I didn't really expect that to work, but we gotta go through the usual dance.

"Got a warrant?" Mutt asked after taking a close look.

I was feelin' pretty lousy by now and in no mood to take crap. "No I don't got a warrant," I said, looking at him like he was an idiot--which he was. I looked at Hutch. "You got a warrant?"

Hutch pinched his nose and ducked his head to keep from grinning at me. "Nope."

"Well, that about covers it, huh?" Mutt said, pleased with his own razor sharp wit. 

"Yeah." Hutch looked at me, all sincere. "You know something, Starsk, he's right. We can't go on in there without probable cause. Like stupid here taking a swing at us."

Mutt's smile did an amazing disappearing act, and I had to work hard to keep it from poppin' up on my face. I frowned a little.

"Wait a second. Which one of these flakes you callin' stupid?"

Hutch looked 'em both over, playing it to the hilt. I swear, sometimes I think my partner should've been an actor. Mutt was smiling again but Jeff looked catatonic.

"The creepy looking one."

They looked at each other, and I could tell Mutt was gettin' steamed. I shrugged.

"Gotta be more specific."

"Oh, it's the guy that never picks on anyone his own size and gets his kicks intimidating young girls and old women."

Works every time. It was all over in a couple minutes and a few good punches; Mutt and Jeff dumped with the rest of the trash, right where they belonged. You'd think anyone with half a brain wouldn't be dumb enough to fall for that old trick--but that explains everything, don't it? I warned 'em both they'd better be history by the time we came out.

"Can you believe they bought that?" I asked Hutch as we walked toward the back door.

The cramps came out of nowhere, knocked me right off my feet. I'd had kind of a naggin' ache in my gut since leaving Bellamy's place, but this was a whole different ballgame. I'd never felt pain like that before, not even when I was shot and bleeding on the floor of that Italian restaurant. It blotted out everything else, I couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't breathe... I locked my arms across my body real tight to keep my stomach from creeping up my throat and spilling outta my mouth.

Through the haze of agony I felt two arms, strong but gentle. I'd folded myself up like some sorta human pretzel without even realizing it, as if I could crawl inside myself to get away from the pain. Hutch pulled me into his lap, and the warmth felt so good after the cold pavement I could've cried. I couldn't stop myself from grabbing onto him--his hand, his leg--like a drowning man. I heard the hum of his voice as he talked to me, but at first the words didn't mean anything.

Didn't matter though, my heart knew what he was sayin'.

Finally the cramps eased up a little bit, though my belly still hurt like hell. I realized I was gulping air, so I concentrated on slowing down, trying to relax and surf the pain. I had both of my hands wrapped around one of Hutch's, squeezing as hard as I could. His other hand was curled around my arm, and I think he was grabbing onto me just as tight.

"You gonna make it, huh?" Hutch's voice was calm, steady. Exactly what I needed to hear.

It felt like someone was plunging red-hot knives into my gut. Hurt so damn bad a part me wanted to die then and there, just to make it stop. But Hutch was there, holding me, encouraging me, and worryin' about me. I had to be strong for him. I had to say something to convince him I was okay.

"My stomach hasn't hurt this bad since my Aunt Rosie sent me her special chicken soup."

"Easy, easy now, come on. Just try to relax, okay?" Still calm but I could hear a ragged edge underneath, and the hand on my shoulder trembled.

"She never could get the hang of it. She made great wonton, though." I tried to look up at him, to smile, but another cramp tore through my gut and I couldn't help wincing.

"Think you can make it? Huh?"

I clamped my teeth together and nodded. "'Kay."

Hutch started to pull me up and the world tilted and spun. I reached back and grabbed hold of his jacket and didn't let go, not even when he got me on my feet. Every few seconds another spasm would twist my stomach into knots, and his firm grip on my arm and my chokehold on his jacket was all that stood between me and another dive to the pavement.

"Gimme a minute...Hutch." I was hunched over like an old man so I slowly straightened up. The cramps had pretty much stopped except for a twinge now and then, but there was a steady, gnawing pain like a tiger tryin' to chew its way outta my belly.

Hutch didn't rush me, just held onto my arm and watched me with those blue eyes that can see right through me. His face looked tense and stiff, and I could tell in his own way he was hurtin' as bad as me. I forced my hands to open and let go of his jacket, and an old standby for lightening the mood popped into my head.

"How do I look?" I snickered a little at my own joke. Sometimes it's either laugh or cry, and the first choice definitely beats the second.

"You look terrible." Hutch's voice quivered with...something. I think maybe he was stuck between those same two choices.

He kept hold of my arm the whole way to the door, lettin' me lean on him. When we got there he turned me to face him, but still didn't let go.

"You okay?"

Okay? I was about as far from okay as The Big Apple is from L.A. My insides felt like they were bein' run through Hutch's blender. I was about to face the slimeball who might be responsible. And even though he was putting up a pretty good front, Hutch was starting to look desperate.

But there was no way I was gonna tell Hutch any of that.

I twisted my mouth into grin and patted his chest. "Yeah."

Rousting Janos was a nightmare. Hutch likes to ride me about my tendency toward stubborn pig-headedness, but I used every single drop of it to keep from showing how much I was hurting. Walking without a hand braced on Hutch; standing straight, not hunched over holding my belly; a steady voice and a poker face--climbing Mt. Everest couldn'ta been any harder.

I let Hutch do all the hard work, knocking over equipment and roughin' up our boy so that he was nice and rattled before we started asking questions. I felt a little guilty, but not much. I figured with the way I was feelin', I'd better concentrate on staying vertical. And I told myself it was a good chance for my partner to blow off a little of the steam I'd seen building up.

Janos, of course, was all full of righteous indignation. Claimed he'd been at the studio since 4:30. Hutch bullyin' him just made him angry, not ready to break down and confess. Hearing him and Hutch go at it made my gut hurt worse--if that was possible.

I wanted the nightmare to be over. I wanted Janos to admit he'd drugged me. I wanted to go home, climb into my own bed, and sleep for a week.

I wanted it to stop hurtin'. Oh God, I'd've done just about anything to make it stop.

"Tell him a funny story," I said to Hutch, then walked over to where I could inconspicuously lean against some of the wreckage my partner had created.

Hutch picked right up on my plan. Janos, who'd been actin' pretty tough while Hutch was shovin' him around, turned to jelly at the thought of us smashing an expensive camera lens. Suddenly he was babbling like an idiot, begging and pleading for us to put it down. Thought he might burst into tears when we started tossin' it back and forth. It would've been funny under any other circumstances.

Right then I didn't feel much like laughing.

The minute Janos really cut loose, I knew he wasn't our guy. I'd been pretty foggy when Stocking Mask injected me, but his laughter still echoed in my head. Cold, cruel--the spiteful sound made it clear he was really gettin' his jollies from hurting me. Janos sounded more like a donkey braying.

"Unfortunately, that's not it."

I lobbed the lens at Janos and walked away without lookin' too hard at Hutch's face. I didn't have to see his expression to know that it looked just like mine. I needed to get out, get away from Janos and his flunkies before I lost what little grasp I had on my emotions.

No runs, no hits, and two outs. In baseball those numbers put you damn close to losing the game.

I walked over to a set of wooden stairs that led up to the second floor and just kinda let my legs fold under me. The pain in my belly had been bad enough; the ache in my heart was almost more than I could take. 

Hutch walked over, not even tryin' to hide his disappointment. "That's twelve hours gone."

"Yeah. Pessimist says the bottle's half empty. And the optimist says it's half full.

Twelve hours. Of pain even worse than the knife that was slicing my stomach into shreds. No longer able to see. To walk. To breathe.

Screw it, I was tired of being strong.

"Oh it hurts, Hutch. Oh God, it hurts."

He sat on the step beside me, one arm curled around my shoulders and the other pressed to my stomach. I leaned toward him, needing to feel his warmth and his solidity when everything else around me was fallin' apart. Guess my coordination was already off, 'cause I wound up sliding off the step instead.

Like always, Hutch was there.

"I know, I know. Buddy, I'm here. I'm here." 

He pulled me into his arms and held me. Anchored me. And for the first time since the nightmare began, I let go. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Hutch  
~~~~~~~~~~~~

I stewed for a while after we left Sweet Alice. Seemed silly that her casual observation would bother me so much, but it did. I could shrug off my concern over Starsky's appearance, chalk it up to a heightened sense of worry because I knew about the poison. But Alice was essentially an innocent bystander, completely unaware of Starsky's predicament. Like the child who pointed out that the emperor's new clothes were really his birthday suit, Alice had dispelled any illusions I might have held about what was really going on with Starsky.

He was sick. And it was starting to show.

For about the millionth time I thought about Doctor Franklin. If Starsky had followed his advice would we have an antidote by now? In letting him be a part of this investigation, had I signed his death warrant? Sure, it was Starsky's decision, but I'm not foolish enough to think I didn't influence him. If I'd encouraged him to stay put in the hospital, to let Franklin do this thing, he'd have bitched and moaned but he'd have done it.

At the time I told myself that I needed to support my partner's choice because it was what he wanted. But that's only part of the reason. Truth is, I couldn't bear the idea that we might spend Starsky's final hours apart. If the end was going to come, I wanted to be Butch and Sundance, going out in a blaze of glory.

Except the only one going out was Starsky. And I was feeling a little selfish. And a lot scared.

I turned toward him, unable to keep it to myself any longer. "Alice was right, Partner, you don't look so good. Maybe it's time we..."

"DON'T."

I expected a token protest, but not the icy cold warning. The voice that said, "I have a gun and I know how to use it." I stammered a little as I struggled to regain my balance.

"Starsk..."

"I mean it, Hutch."

Partner. Best friend. Brother. I know Starsky, when to push and when to get the hell out of Dodge. There was so much hidden within those few simple words. Hidden to others, but not to me. He was hurting, he was scared, and he was determined not to let me know. I had to respect that.

"Chanon's up ahead on the left. If I know our boy Janos, he'll have a couple of goons standing guard out front."

Starsky just nodded, but I could see his fingers tighten on the steering wheel and he swallowed hard. When he finally did speak, his voice was low and husky with emotion.

"Hutch?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks."

I was worried sick about him the entire time we were disposing of Janos' hired muscle. Two of the "all brawn and no brain" types would normally be a recreational sport for Starsky and me--we both love to mess with their heads.

We went through the motions, but my heart wasn't really in it and I don't think Starsky's was either, though he put up a good front. Getting Stupid to lose his temper was child's play, but Ugly did me the favor of throwing the first punch. In the blink of an eye it was all over, and Starsky was actually crowing a little about how easy it had been. Felt good to hear the smug tone in his voice.

Next thing I knew, he was on the ground.

I could see right away that he must be in excruciating pain. He'd curled into a fetal position, oblivious to the fact that he was on the pavement, and was grunting in pain. Sounded like someone was working him over, punching him repeatedly in the gut. I dropped down on one knee and pulled him into my arms.

"Starsky. Hey, hey, hey. Easy, easy, easy."

I operated on automatic pilot, terrified by what was happening to Starsky and offering blind comfort the only way I knew how. He burrowed into my hold as if he could escape the pain by sheer physical contact. I held on tightly, stealing a quick glance toward the street to be sure that Martini's two goons hadn't decided to come back. Last thing I needed was to be taken out by that scum while Starsky was incapacitated.

Starsky stopped squirming and lay in my arms, every muscle in his body tense, gulping air like a drowning man. His hands were locked onto me with so much desperation, I knew I was going to have finger-shaped bruises on my arm and leg.

"You gonna make it, huh?" I asked him.

"My stomach hasn't hurt this bad since my Aunt Rosie sent me her special chicken soup."

"Easy, easy now, come on. Just try to relax, okay?" I fought to keep my voice steady, but it broke a little anyway.

Starsky was on the ground, wracked with cramps I could still feel spasming periodically through his body, and he was trying to make me laugh. I knew what he was doing, and why. And even as I admired him, I hurt like hell.

I'd never felt so helpless. In the darkest of times, I'd always had a plan of action, something I could do. When Starsky was shot, I'd bandaged him up and concocted a plan to get us out safely. I was worried I might bungle the whole thing and get someone else hurt. I was terrified he was going to bleed to death. But at least I was doing something.

So far, it seemed like all I'd done was spin my wheels and watch Starsky get sicker.

"She never could get the hang of it. She made great wonton, though."

Ah, Starsk. I'm so damn sorry.

"Think you can make it, huh?" I asked, still uneasy about our location.

He let me haul him to his feet, but he was as shaky as a toddler taking his first steps. I steadied him--held him up, really--while he struggled to get control of himself and the pain. He briefly pressed one hand to his stomach, but removed it and clutched my jacket instead. After a long moment he loosened his fists and tried to straighten up.

"How do I look?" He even managed a weak chuckle at his own joke.

I don't think I'd ever seen him look worse. Voices of reason were screaming in my head: This is crazy. He'll never make it. He belongs in a hospital.

And I pushed them all aside. Starsky was willing to endure agonizing pain to have a stake in his own salvation. Who was I to take that away from him?

"You look terrible." The words sent one message, but I put the real meaning in my voice.

I kept hold of his arm all the way to the back door, letting him lean on me and taking it slow. As soon as we stepped inside, though, he let go and put on that cocky swagger that I know and love. The transformation was pretty amazing, but I knew he was hanging on by his fingernails. 

There was no joy, no amusement from him as I snagged Janos and shook him around. Normally Starsky gets a kick out of harassing a weasel like Martini, but today he was distant and detached. He let me do the talking and just watched.

"Where were you at four o'clock this morning?"

"What are you guys, crazy?" Janos was furious, too mad to be afraid at first. "What's the beef?"

I shook him by the collar of his cheap sportcoat. "Don't answer a question with a question."

"At my apartment! We started shooting at five, I was here at four-thirty--ask the crew!" He shoved my hands away.

Starsky, who'd been staring at him as if he were an interesting bug, stepped in. "Come on, Janos. You expect us to take the word of these flakes on anything?" To Martini I'm sure he sounded same as always. To me, he sounded like he'd just run a marathon. "Tell him a funny story."

I drew a blank for a moment, then understood. Starsky's words in the hospital played through my head.

Well, he had about as mean a laugh as I've ever heard.

"I don't feel too funny this morning, Janos. So I want you to pretend that I told you a real knee-slapper."

"What do you guys want?" Still way too calm. Well, I could change that.

It was a pleasure making him squirm over that expensive camera lens. Suddenly Mr. Cool was running off at the mouth and pleading with us both, terrified his little investment was going to wind up in a million pieces on the floor. My frustration level was skyrocketing, and what I really wanted to be doing to Janos involved my fists in a close encounter with his face. Instead, I had to be content just to poke him with a stick--so to speak.

It would've been completely understandable if Starsky had fumbled a catch and dropped that lens. But I knew he wouldn't.

When Janos started laughing I saw immediately that we had the wrong guy. Starsky's face tightened and he sucked in a sharp breath of air.

"Unfortunately, that's not it." He tossed the lens to Janos and walked out.

When we hit fresh air, Starsky's steps got slower and slower. I thought we'd go back to the car, but he wandered over to a flight of wooden steps and dropped down onto them.

I just...couldn't seem to find any words. Nearly four o'clock in the afternoon. Half of the ridiculously short time my partner had been given was gone, and we had nothing. I was tired, frustrated, and aching inside, yet I knew it was just a drop in the bucket compared to what Starsky was feeling. I walked over to stand beside him.

"Well, that's twelve hours gone." I wished I could snatch back the words the moment they left my mouth.

Brilliant, absolutely brilliant. You really know how to cheer a guy up, Hutchinson.

Starsky, God bless him, took it in stride, the way he had during every lousy set back so far.

"Yeah. The pessimist says the bottle's half empty. And the optimist says it's half full."

I looked at him. Despite his detour into philosophy, I could hear the pain in his voice.

Time in a bottle. I've never really understood that analogy, even though Jim Croce has made good money singing about it. Me, I've always thought we hold our time in a glass. Some people just let it sit there, looking pretty, and never drink from it. Some people guzzle it down like beer at a frat party, consuming it without really tasting it. And some people just pour it out on the ground, wasted and useless. Then there's the rare few who sip it slowly, enjoying every single mouthful for the pleasure it brings them.

Starsky's one of the few. He approaches life with an enthusiasm that I envy but can't quite duplicate. I'll tell you something, though. Since he came into my life, I've started sipping too. I try, anyway.

"Oh it hurts, Hutch. Oh God, it hurts."

He practically fell into my embrace, too miserable to keep up the illusion any longer. I held him as tightly as I could while he finally allowed himself to fall apart. 

And I tried my damnedest not to think of that half-empty glass.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Hutch  
~~~~~~~~~~~~

Starsky didn't even argue when I held out my hand for the keys. I watched him slide stiffly into the passenger seat, wishing he'd whine and complain. The silent acceptance was unnerving, and told me more clearly than words how much he was hurting.

Getting behind the wheel felt...wrong. I'd driven his car before, but only when Starsky was laid up in the hospital or needed me to bring it to him. Never with him riding shotgun beside me.

I watched him out of the corner of my eye as I drove. He'd been quiet since the breakdown in the alley--a little embarrassed, I think. Much as I didn't want him to feel uneasy about letting go in front of me, I knew I'd've been just as uncomfortable if the tables were turned. Starsky and I are more open with each other than most guys I know, but even we have our limits. We're still macho cop types, after all.

Embarrassment was only a small part of what was going on behind those blue eyes, though. Starsky looked terrible. His face had the strained, pinched look of suffering, and his normally bronzed skin was unnaturally pale. One hand gripped the armrest and the other curled tightly around his stomach. Every so often I'd see him flinch, as if an unusually sharp pain had slipped past his defenses.

"Stop it."

I blinked and looked over at him, startled from my thoughts. "Huh?"

Starsky turned a patient but weary gaze on me. "Stop watching me outta the corner of your eye."

I put on my most outraged expression. "Watching you? Why the hell would I want to do that? Hate to break the news to you, pal, but you're not that fascinating a specimen."

His lips quirked in what might've been a smile if he'd had more energy. "My point exactly. Besides, you keep eyeballin' me and you're gonna wreck my car. And there's no way in hell I'm gonna spend next week..."

Silence stretched long and heavy between us. You didn't have to be a rocket scientist to know what we were both thinking. There might not be a next week for Starsky.

There might not be a tomorrow.

"Just stop it," he finally muttered, slouching down further into the seat.

He must have zoned out for a while, because we were almost to my apartment before he pushed himself up, scowling.

"Hate to break the news to you, buddy, but this ain't the way to Metro."

Think fast, Hutchinson.

I flashed him a bright smile. "And they said you were just a pretty face."

My partner was not amused. His eyebrows drew together and his jaw clenched. "What are you up to, Hutch?"

Okay, so humor wasn't going to work. I gripped the steering wheel a little more tightly and opted for the direct approach.

"Thought we could stop off at my place for a while. Maybe get you some food and a little nap."

Starsky glowered at me. "Are you outta your mind? The clock's ticking and you want me to take a nap? But hey, why stop there? Let's take a few days off and go to Dobey's cabin for some fishing. 'Course it's a long drive. Be a shame if I was dead before we got there."

"Are you finished?" I kept my voice calm and even, but it wasn't easy. Starsky just glared at me.

"Look, Huggy has an ear to the ground and an eye on every street corner. Dobey's got half the force out, turning over rocks to look for Wedell. There's not much either of us can do at this point but wait for something to turn. You barely slept last night, you've eaten next to nothing, and you look like hell. It only makes sense for you to take a break while you can."

I pulled to the curb in front of Venice Place, switched off the engine, and turned to stab a finger at him. "And you damn well better not joke about dying again. It's no fun from this side of the fence either." My voice shook with fury.

I got out of the car without waiting for him to answer, slamming the door because I know it irritates him. The anger felt good, cleansing. It was so much easier than the complicated cocktail of other emotions I'd been experiencing all day. I stalked around the back of car, feeling vindicated, until I saw Starsky awkwardly dragging himself out of his seat. The discomfort evident in such a simple movement doused the flame of my anger like a bucket of cold water.

I caught hold of his arm as he slowly unfolded his body from the seat. Once I saw he was steady, I turned toward the building. Starsky's fingers knotted in my jacket pulled me up short. I looked back into a face filled with remorse.

"Hutch...I...I didn't..." He closed his mouth and gave a little shake of his head. "I was outta line. I'm sorry."

I placed one of my hands over his and gave it a squeeze, then cocked an eyebrow. "Prove it."

It was obviously the last reply Starsky expected. He released my jacket and stared blankly at me. "Huh?"

I turned him toward the door with an arm slung around his shoulders--figured it was the most inconspicuous way of helping him up the stairs without pissing him off. "You said you're sorry. So prove it. Stop fighting me on this and cooperate."

Starsky's expression was wary. "By doing what exactly?"

"Eating whatever I put in front of you and then trying to get some sleep."

He looked honestly horrified. "Hutch, I seen what's in that kitchen of yours. My stomach already hurts, ain't no way I'm gonna be able to keep down desiccated liver mixed with wheat germ and tofu."

We'd reached the door to my apartment and Starsky was puffing like a freight train. I left one hand on his shoulder while I reached up for the key. "Starsk, your body needs reinforcements if it's gonna keep fighting this thing." I swung the door open and motioned him through. "I know what I'm doing. Trust me."

"I hate it when you do that," Starsky muttered as he shuffled past me. "It's impossible to argue when you put it that way."

Don't I know it.

"Just go take a load off," I told him aloud. "I'll bring it to you when it's ready."

Starsky muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "don't rush" but did as I suggested. I went into the kitchen, and after checking in with Dobey so that he knew where we were, started raiding the refrigerator and cupboards, wracking my brain. He needed something simple and easy to digest that would supply calories and fluids. I finally wound up dumping some crushed ice, bananas, strawberries, juice, vitamin extracts, and milk into the blender until I had a kind of fruit shake concoction. I poured it into a tall glass, added a straw, and served it with a flourish.

"Voila! A Hutchinson special."

Starsky eyed it like it was radioactive. "Special what?"

"Got one word for you, Starsk. Co-op-er-a-tion."

His nose wrinkled but he cautiously put the straw to his lips. His eyebrows shot up until they were practically hidden by that mop of curly hair and he pulled the glass back to stare at it.

"Hey! This stuff's good!"

I sat down on the other end of the couch, propped up my feet, and folded my arms. "Told you to trust me."

I clicked on the television and handed him the remote. Starsky flipped through channels until he found a cop show, then settled down to watch and sip the shake. By the time the show was ending, he'd polished off three-quarters of the drink and was looking pretty glassy-eyed.

"Too bad this ain't a TV show, huh, Hutch?" He set the glass on the coffee table and let his head drop onto the back of the couch.

I frowned a little, baffled. "'Fraid you lost me, partner."

"This whole mess, with me poisoned and us tryin' to find out who did it." Starsky gestured vaguely with his right hand, the left still clamped around his stomach. "If this was a TV show, we'd be sure to find the bad guy in time. It'd be a close call, of course, to keep things exciting. But eventually everything would work out right for a happy ending."

An invisible hand clamped steel fingers around my throat. "Don't sell us short, buddy. Personally, I haven't given up on that happy ending."

He let his head loll in my direction, eyes at half-mast and shadowed with dark circles. "Hutch, I want that as much as you do. But you gotta face the facts. Odds are..."

"I don't give a rat's ass what the odds are! We're gonna find the turkey who did this to you, and we're gonna get you that antidote. It's only a matter of time." I didn't want to take my rage out on him, but I couldn't stand to hear the resignation in his voice.

Starsky looked at me with such intensity I squirmed a little. The corners of his mouth turned up just a bit but his eyes looked weary and sad. "That's the point, pal. But I ain't gonna argue with ya."

We sat in silence for a while. When I finally looked over at him again, Starsky's eyes were closed and his breathing was slow and even. Mission accomplished. I grabbed a blanket from the bedroom and spread it over him, surprised when he spoke.

"Why'd we come here, Hutch?" The words were slurred with sleep.

"What?"

"Why'd we come to your place? How come you didn't just take me home?"

I shrugged even though his eyes were still closed and he couldn't see me. "No special reason."

One eye cracked open. "How'd you know?"

"Know what?" I really didn't want to get into this, and I kept hoping if I played dumb Starsky would give up. I should've known better. 

He grimaced as he shifted position so that he was lying on his side with the blanket tucked up to his chin. "You knew I'd never be able to sleep at my place."

I hadn't known, of course. But I'd suspected. We learned all about the psychology of victims back at the Academy, including how tough it can be for them to return to the scene of the crime. Starsky had experienced a severe trauma in his own home, and it wasn't over yet. I'd figured it would be tough under any circumstances to get him to relax and rest. Trying to make it happen with last night's memories lurking around every corner would make it impossible.

I snorted. "Nah. I just figured coming here was the only way to avoid having to eat cold pizza and root beer."

"Ah, so that's it." Starsky's eye slid shut and he sighed. I was halfway to the kitchen with his glass when I heard him call my name. "Hutch?"

I paused and turned back. "Yeah, buddy?"

"You're a terrible liar."

I grinned to myself.

You're welcome.

~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Starsky  
~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lettin' Hutch drive felt like giving in, but even I was smart enough to know I'd be crazy to get behind the wheel. I'd pulled myself together enough to stop bawlin' like a baby, but my gut was killing me and every once in a while things'd look like they were underwater—all blurry and wavy 'round the edges. Shape I was in, I wasn't fit to be driving a bike, let alone the Torino, and I knew it.

Didn't make it hurt any less, though. I have a real tough time bein' dependent on anybody for anything. I suppose most men have that streak in 'em to some extent, but mine runs pretty deep. If I had to play shrink on myself, I'd guess it goes back to my pop dyin' the way he did. Not havin' your old man around teaches a kid to depend on himself for a lot of things. I learned that lesson young, and I learned it good.

Too good, sometimes.

Even though we aren't real brothers, Hutch is blood of my blood, a piece of me. I know in my head that I can tell him anything, show him any part of me, and it won't make a damn bit of difference in how he feels. I mean, I've seen him at rock bottom, arms full of track marks, sweatin' and puking one minute, ready to tear my head off the next and it didn't change a thing for me. I don't know what I'd've done back in that alley if he hadn't been there for me. I needed a shoulder to cry on and he'd been there with no holds barred, just like always.

But I couldn't help feeling a little uncomfortable afterwards.

The past twelve hours felt like twelve years. I wanted my life back. I wanted my gut to stop feelin' like I'd eaten ground glass. I wanted to drive the Torino like a bat outta hell and have Hutch yellin' at me to slow down before I get us both killed. I wanted to look at a clock without counting how many hours I had left.

I wanted my partner to stop looking at me outta the corner of his eye.

"Stop it."

Hutch looked over with this dopey, blank look on his face, as if he didn't know exactly what I was talking about. "Huh?"

Man, I was way too tired, and way too miserable to get into this with him. "Stop watching me outta the corner of your eye."

I think I've mentioned that my partner missed a career in acting. He put on his indignant, wounded expression, like I was way off base accusing him of such a thing.

"Watching you? Why the hell would I want to do that? Hate to break the news to you, pal, but you're not that fascinating a specimen."

I did my best not to dignify that with a smile, but I wasn't entirely successful. "My point exactly. Besides, you keep eyeballin' me and you're gonna wreck my car. And there's no way in hell I'm gonna spend next week..."

Ah, hell. 

Next week was as far out of reach as next century for me unless things started turnin' around. I wondered what Hutch would do with the Torino if I didn't make it. I pictured him selling it to some smart mouthed punk with a lot of cash and no brains. Then I pictured him with another partner, cruisin' the streets in that trashcan on wheels he calls a car. Pulling pranks on Dobey and driving him crazy. Goin' to Huggy's for a beer after work.

Ah, hell.

"Just stop it." 

I scooted down further in the seat and tried not to think about someone else filling the holes in Hutch's life after I was gone. I knew I was just feelin' sorry for myself, but I figured I was entitled. 

I was so deep into my own pity party I didn't even notice Hutch was taking us to Venice until we were almost there. I pushed myself up in the seat and used the snidest tone of voice I could manage. "Hate to break the news to you, buddy, but this ain't the way to Metro."

He tried to get cute with me but I was in no frame of mind for humor. I demanded to know what he was up to, and I guess I sounded pretty angry, 'cause he told me.

"Thought we could stop off at my place for a while. Maybe get you some food and a little nap."

It was too much. Between kicking myself for breaking down in the alley, wallowing in self-pity over dying, and the constant stabbing pain in my stomach, I had reached the end of what microscopic amount of patience I own.

"Are you outta your mind? The clock's ticking and you want me to take a nap? But hey, why stop there? Let's take a few days off and go to Dobey's cabin for some fishing. 'Course it's a long drive. Be a shame if I was dead before we got there."

Hutch shoulda just pulled the car over and decked me. I sure deserved it. I knew what he was goin' through, knew his comment about it being hardest on the ones left behind was only half a joke. There was just so much bad feeling in me--anger, and sadness, and fear, and frustration--that it all erupted like a volcano and came spillin' out. Poor Hutch was just unlucky enough to be in the way.

When I get pissed off I blow my top. But Hutch...sometimes when he's the most angry he goes quiet. He told me exactly why we were goin' to his place, and everything he said made perfect sense. Not only that, he was doing it to look out for me. To try and keep me at his side, on the streets and not stuck at the hospital with the doc and his needles.

He didn't let me see his anger until he'd parked the car. "And you damn well better not joke about dying again. It's no fun from this side of the fence either."

I didn't even care that he shut his door hard enough to chip the paint. I tried to get outta the car so that I could talk to him, could apologize and tell him I was a jerk. Problem was, every move I made hurt like hell. I got halfway unfolded from the seat and couldn't go any further. Then Hutch's hand was on my arm, pulling me up and steadying me. Mad as he was, he coulda dumped me on my ass--I had it comin' to me. But he just turned and started walking toward the building.

I gaped at him for a minute before I found my voice. "Hutch...I...I didn't..." I'm no good at apologies, never have been. I shook my head, hopin' it would jump-start my mouth. "I was outta line. I'm sorry."

Hutch coulda told me to forget it, or he coulda suggested I go to hell. Neither response would've surprised me. Asking me to prove it, though...that curve ball came outta left field.

Gettin' some rest is one thing. But eating whatever Blondie decides is good for me? Do you have any idea how much he was asking from me? Hutch's got stuff in his kitchen that no self-respectin' human being would touch with a ten foot pole, let alone put in their mouth.

Trust me, he said.

And that's just plain dirty pool. Hutch always says that when he's tryin' to get me to do something unpleasant. 'Cause he knows I do. Ain't no defense against him when he plays that particular trump card. And it really pisses me off, too.

I gotta admit, Hutch's couch felt like a little piece of heaven. I sat there with my feet up on the coffee table and listened to him rattling around in the kitchen, tryin' not to think about what he might be throwin' into the blender. Hutch tricked me into drinking one of his power shakes once, and that was more than enough for me. The inside of my running shoes'd taste better than that stuff--not that I've got any basis for comparison.

After a few minutes Hutch came walking up to me with a big smile on his face and a glass full of pink stuff in his hand.

"Voila! A Hutchinson special."

Oh God. He was so pleased with himself, and I still felt guilty for the way I'd acted earlier. But my stomach was doin' flip-flops and I really didn't want to ruin Hutch's carpet.

"Special what?"

"Got one word for you, Starsk. Co-op-er-a-tion."

Like I said, Hutch fights dirty. I tried to prepare myself for the worst and put the straw to my lips. The first swallow was...

Delicious.

I couldn't believe it. Had to take another sip just to be sure I wasn't delirious or something. It tasted kinda like fruit and ice cream, and I think maybe it was the only thing I coulda kept down at that moment.

"Hey! This stuff's good!" I admitted.

Hutch sat down next to me, looking awfully smug. "Told you to trust me."

He must've been feelin' pretty sorry for me, because he not only turned on the TV, he let me have the remote. Usually he won't let me anywhere near it 'cause he says I flip through the channels so fast it makes him nauseous. Personally, I think he's got something against horror movies.

There's not a lot to chose from at five o'clock on a weekday, but I found a cop show and drank most of Hutch's shake while we watched it. Usually Hutch and me would be crackin' jokes, laughing ourselves sick over Hollywood's version of the police. But neither of us felt much like laughing. And all I could think about was how nice and neat the ending turned out to be. The good guys won. The bad guys got put away. Justice was served. Simple.

No punks committing a crime and skipping town without being caught. No crooked lawyers findin' loopholes to set guilty men free. No cops dying from a stray bullet, or a knife to the gut, or...

"Too bad this ain't a TV show, huh, Hutch?" I leaned back into the cushions a little more, so tired I hurt all over.

Not bein' in my head with me the last few minutes, Hutch couldn't figure out what the heck I was talking about. "'Fraid you lost me, Partner."

"This whole mess, with me poisoned and us tryin' to find out who did it. If this was a TV show, we'd be sure to catch the bad guy in time. It'd be a close call, of course, to keep things exciting. But eventually everything would work out right for a happy ending."

I didn't mean to upset him, I was just putting my thoughts into words. But Hutch's voice got tight and soft. "Don't sell us short, buddy. Personally, I haven't given up on that happy ending."

Ah, Hutch. Thought you were supposed to be the pessimist.

I looked over at him, too tired to bother lifting my head off the couch. "Hutch, I want that as much as you do. But you gotta face the facts. Odds are..."

"I don't give a rat's ass what the odds are! We're gonna find the turkey who did this to you, and we're gonna get you that antidote. It's only a matter of time."

I knew he believed it. Still, it felt damn good to hear him say it. Even if he was blinding himself to the real truth in his own words, I wasn't about to argue. When Hutch's crusading for a cause, you'd better go along or get the hell outta the way. It eased the pain in my gut just a little.

I must've been even more tired than I realized, 'cause in spite of the ache in my belly I started sliding down into sleep. The hum of the TV, the sound of Hutch breathing, and the softness of the cushions all conspired against me.

I was pretty far gone when I felt something warm and soft settle on top of me. I'd spent enough nights on Hutch's couch to recognize the blanket he always let me use. And it hit me then, dragging me back from the edge of sleep, how lucky I was.

"Why'd we come here, Hutch?" I knew the answer; I just wanted to hear him admit it.

"What?"

"Why'd we come to your place? Why didn't you just take me home?"

"No special reason." Hutch's voice was matter of fact--too matter of fact. It wasn't comin' natural; he was workin' at it.

I tried to look at his face, but I could only muster up enough energy to drag one eye open. "How'd you know?"

"Know what?"

Hutch is smart, I mean really smart. I hate it when he plays dumb with me, 'cause I know it's to keep from bein' honest. He knew exactly what I was asking him, but I guess he figured if he made me work for it, I'd give up.

You'd think by now he'd know better.

I squirmed around until I could lay down on my side, hopin' to find a more comfortable position. Just that little bit of moving woke up the cramps in my gut and I was almost sorry I'd bothered. I pulled the blanket all the way up to my chin and the warmth seemed to drive back the pain a little.

"You knew I'd never be able to sleep at my place."

I was irritated that Hutch was using psychology on me like I was made of glass while still grateful that he was looking out for me. I didn't wanna be a victim. I'm a cop, I'm supposed to be the one standing up for the victim. Pretty hard to feel that way now, though, layin' huddled under a blanket on Hutch's couch.

Hutch gave a little snort and shook his head. "Nah. I just figured coming here was the only way to avoid having to eat cold pizza and root beer."

"Ah, so that's it." Laying on my side seemed to ease the knife in my belly, and sleep was tugging me under again. Much as I hated givin' in, I was too tired to fight.

I heard Hutch gather up the glass I'd been drinking from and head for the kitchen, walking cat-footed to keep from disturbin' me. I didn't want a soapy scene, but I had to let him know I appreciated what he'd done.

"Hutch?"

"Yeah, buddy?"

I smiled to myself. "You're a terrible liar."

He'd know what I meant.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~  
Hutch  
~~~~~~~~~~~

I guess I must've dozed off myself. I didn't intend to--I was determined to watch over Starsky while he slept, uneasy about the way the poison was relentlessly taking its toll. Even though Dr. Franklin had pretty much confirmed the twenty-four hour timeline, I couldn't seem to shake a few stray irrational fears. Like Starsky quietly dying in his sleep while I napped in the chair across the room.

For a while I crouched over the phone like a vulture, willing it to ring with some kind of news on Wedell's whereabouts. Then something my mother used to say when I was a kid occurred to me: a watched pot never boils. I don't think of myself as particularly superstitious; I leave that to my curly-haired partner. But my own lack of sleep was starting to catch up with me, and the chair near the couch where Starsky was sleeping looked a little too tempting to pass up.

I sat there and watched him sleep for a long time. It wasn't an unfamiliar sight, between stakeouts and the occasional vacation together--not to mention the times one of us is just too exhausted to drive home. Starsky normally sleeps like a little kid, sprawled out, all legs and arms, dead to the world. From the way he was curled up, knees drawn toward his chest and arms curled over his stomach, I knew he was hurting even if he was temporarily oblivious to it. I struggled against a tight, choking sensation of helpless rage and concentrated on his face.

I thought about the first time we met, back in the Academy, both of us as green as the grass but full of determination to save the world and tie it all up in a shiny gold bow. I remember how I looked at him then--the worn clothing, the streetwise flavor of his speech, the slight swagger that was a subtle thumbing of his nose to authority--and I dismissed him. Just another punk looking to be a cop for the glory and the gun, lacking the brains and the heart to ever make it through training.

To my shame, I couldn't have been more wrong. To my credit, I didn't take very long to realize it.

What I learned, once I got past the holes in his jeans and the Bronx in his speech, was that David Michael Starsky epitomized everything a good cop should be. Beneath the wiseguy exterior was a heart larger, more generous, and uncompromisingly loyal than any I'd ever known. I was privileged to be his classmate and eventually his partner.

I was blessed to be his friend.

I'd never lacked friends when I was growing up. 

Wait. Strike that.

I always had plenty of kids to pal around with through grade school, high school, college. I called them my friends. Looking back now, though, I don't think I truly understood what the word meant. What I have with Starsky... It's like the difference between a swimming pool and the ocean. And like the ocean, the farther we go, the deeper it gets. I've been very close to a lot of people, my parents, my sister--even Vanessa once upon a time. But my friendship with Starsky is hands down the most significant relationship I've ever had.

I couldn't face the idea of losing that. But then, I wasn't being given much choice.

Anyway, at some point during all those profound thoughts I guess my brain just shut down and I dozed off. I awoke to an empty couch and the unmistakable sounds of Starsky getting sick in the bathroom. I could only imagine how painful the process must have been for him, because every heave was followed by a moan. 

I hovered outside the doorway for a minute, not sure which he would value more, my support or his privacy. Starsky hates having anyone witness him puke, as I learned during a particularly bad case of the stomach flu. He was weak as a kitten, barely able to stagger into the john, but he wouldn't let me help him. Told me he didn't want to offend my delicate sensibilities. Hell, even after he was shot by Vic Monte's hitmen, he was less concerned about the fact that he was bleeding like a stuck pig than that he might be about to lose his lunch.

More retching, followed by a whimper, made up my mind. I put on my game face and opened the door.

Starsky was on his knees in front of the toilet, hands clutching the sides and forehead pressed to the bowl, his eyes tightly shut. His skin was as white as the porcelain, a sheen of sweat glistening on his face and plastering dark curls to his brow, and he was shivering violently. One eye cracked open to focus blearily on me.

I expected he'd tell me to take a hike, that he didn't need an audience. What he said instead tore my heart.

"Sorry...'bout the...shake."

I grabbed a washcloth and wet it with cold water from the sink before crouching down beside him. "You finished?"

His mouth twisted into a wry little grin but his voice was hardly more than a croak. "Funny you should put it that way." The effect was spoiled by a particularly strong tremor and the smile evaporated. "Yeah."

"C'mere." I pulled him against me so that his back was braced by my front and gently wiped his face and mouth. "What do you say we get you off the floor and back to the couch?"

I slipped my arms under his and started to lift, but his hand clutched my sleeve. "Hutch."

Something in his tone stopped me cold and I sank back against the tile. "Yeah, buddy?"

His head dropped back onto my shoulder and I could see him blinking as he fought back tears. "I can't... I don't know if I..." His voice broke as his throat worked furiously to form words. When they finally came, they were a breathy whisper. "It hurts, Hutch."

I tried hard to keep my own voice steady, but it trembled almost as badly as Starsky. "Let's get you to the couch. I'll call Cheryl."

He managed to walk back to the couch on his own power, with just my steadying hand on his arm, but I could see how much effort it cost him. I brought him a glass of water and left him sipping it while I called Metro and located Cheryl. She was sympathetic but not surprised by Starsky's level of pain, and promised she could concoct something to help. I glanced at the clock as I helped him into his jacket and out the door--8:30 p.m. Four more hours gone and no word on Wedell.

Starsky let me help him out of the car when we got to Metro, but shook my hand off as soon as we walked through the doors. I knew rumors must be flying about what had happened to him, and heads turned as we passed despite his attempt to appear normal. Truth was, whether he accepted my help or not he looked terrible, like a good stiff breeze could blow him over. He walked with a careful economy of movement that was completely at odds with his normal, bouncy stride, and the stiff set to his features screamed pain.

I breathed a sigh of relief when we finally closed the door to Cheryl's lab and Starsky slumped onto a stool. I turned around just in time to catch Cheryl looking at him, a fleeting expression of pity crossing her features before she replaced it with a professional mask. She sensed me watching and bent over a test tube.

"It'll be ready in just a minute."

I laid my hand on her shoulder and she looked up, eyes wide and startled behind her glasses. I tried to smile reassuringly, but it felt wooden.

"Cheryl." I glanced at Starsky, sitting so quietly with his head pressed against the side of a small refrigerator, and lowered my voice. "It's bad."

Her gaze darted to Starsky and then back, and her expression softened. "I'll hurry."

I paced back and forth for a few minutes while Cheryl measured and poured, her brow furrowed in concentration. While I paced I would sneak glances at Starsky, but he didn't move, he didn't look up, and he didn't read me the riot act. Finally I couldn't stand it any longer, and wandered over to him.

"How ya doing, huh?"

Brilliant opening, Hutchinson. How the hell do you think he's doing?

"I'm scared."

My stomach plunged to my toes. Starsky and I have been in more life and death situations than I'd want to count, and I'd never, NEVER heard him admit fear. I leaned in close so that he could feel me at his back and searched for words--to reassure, to encourage, to comfort--but I came up dry. 

And suddenly, more than anything, I just wanted to hear him laugh.

"I don't know what there is to be scared about. We've still got seven hours."

Starsky turned his head to look at me, his incredulous expression testifying that he wasn't certain whether I'd lost my mind. I gave a little nod and a grin as if to stand behind my words. Inside my head a voice was chanting loudly, drowning out the sounds of Cheryl's lab equipment.

Come on, Starsky! Play along. It's not over unless we say it is. Don't give up! Don't quit on me now.

And my partner, as always, didn't let me down.

"Oh that's right. Just enough time to catch the double bill at the Rivoli and still finish that book I been readin'."

I chuckled. I knew it couldn't be easy for him to crack a joke, but the slight curve of his lips felt like a glimmer of sunshine after a cloudy day.

"Well we know it's not Bellamy, and we know it's not Janos. All we've got to do is to find Wedell." I wanted to believe that badly, but it was no good unless Starsky believed too.

"Only he ain't turnin' up. We got a whole police force lookin' in this city and he ain't showin'." Starsky answered me with just a slight turn of his head, and from the occasional twitch of his body I could tell that the muscle cramps were only getting worse. Those reassuring words were getting harder to find.

And I still needed that laugh.

"That's 'cause you and me aren't on the streets," I told him and he made a sound as if I'd enlightened him to a profound truth, egging me on. I patted his leg. "As soon as we get back on the streets we'll turn that turkey."

"Probably find him in a trash can."

I had his attention now; he'd shed that blank look and a trace of amusement was back on his lips. "Sure," I agreed.

"Hit the streets, run down a few alleys." He was smiling now.

"Bust down a few doors." My spirits lifted just hearing the sarcasm in his voice. Had this nightmare really only been going on for seventeen hours? It felt like seventeen days.

"Get a few snitches workin'."

"The guy won't have a chance."

The laugh I'd been hoping for erupted from Starsky in a little snort. I was still snickering, relishing the moment, when his chuckle contorted into a grimace of pain.

I was hit by such an overwhelming wave of helplessness, grief, and fury that I had to turn my face away. I didn't want to expose Starsky to my anguish, to give him a reason to worry about me. My partner, however, had retreated back into his shell as he struggled just to hold himself together. 

"Cheryl, will you hurry up with that stuff!"

I heard the bite in my words and sucked in a deep breath, rubbing Starsky's back in what I hoped was a soothing manner. Poor Cheryl scrambled to finish preparing the syringe and hurried over to us.

"Here, this'll help."

I got Starsky's sleeve rolled up so she could swab his arm with alcohol and inject the painkiller, then rolled it back down. He submitted to our manhandling, too miserable to offer more than a slight protest at the needle. 

"Boy. That arm's been really gettin' it."

I put his jacket back around his shoulders, watching him anxiously for some sign of improvement. In my head, I knew better than to expect some kind of miraculous revival, but my heart kept hoping for it just the same.

"You okay?"

Starsky tried hard to oblige me. "Oh yeah, I'm fine. The room's in pretty bad shape, but I'm doin' just fine."

Cheryl held out her hands, regret darkening her face. "I can't give you anything stronger without knocking you out."

"Please, that's all I need." The usually dry Starsky wit was forced, strained.

Cheryl turned back to dispose of the used hypodermic and I barely contained the urge to begin smashing all the tubes, flasks and beakers, not stopping until they reflected the rapidly splintering pieces of my heart.

"What's the good of all your books, all your junk, all your toys, your stuff here, wha...if it doesn't DO anything!" I heard myself stammer, something that only happens when I lose control of my emotions, and it just made me angrier. "What's happening here, Cheryl?"

Rather than snapping back, Cheryl looked distressed. "Nothing very good."

"You're doin' all you can, Cheryl."

Leave it to Starsky, as sick as he was, to try and ease her regret. Cheryl sighed and removed her glasses, massaging the bridge of her nose. For the first time it occurred to me that she looked almost as tired as we did.

"I did go out to campus. Dad was in a faculty meeting and couldn't come out--wouldn't, I guess."

The thought of the professor deliberately refusing to offer help just stoked my anger. I wanted a fight, and so far no one was cooperating. "What's the matter with him? How come you have to keep making excuses for him?" I growled.

And yet again Starsky's quiet response, the voice of reason. His eyes fastened onto mine and wouldn't let go. "Softly. Don't antagonize the people I need." The barest trace of a smile accompanied the rebuke, quenching my rage.

Cheryl went on about spectrograph analysis and a lot of other mumbo jumbo that simply meant a dead end as far as a cure for Starsky. I'd heard it all from Dr. Franklin already, and it didn't play any better the second time around.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah."

"Well. That brings us back to finding Wedell."

Starsky looked at me and I could read his thoughts through his eyes. 

Soon. Dear God, make it soon.

~~~~~~~~~~~  
Starsky  
~~~~~~~~~~~

I woke up knowin' I had to puke. I'm not talking about the queasy, seasick kind of feeling tellin' you your stomach might have its own ideas 'bout what to do with lunch. I'm talking the "Oh boy, I better get to the john right now or I'm gonna make a big mess" kind of feeling. I must've still been half asleep, 'cause I was on my knees, worshipping the porcelain god before I'd even gotten my eyes all the way open.

Hutch is just damn lucky I know his apartment as well as my own.

I hate to puke. I mean I really hate to puke, almost as much as I hate hospitals. I hate the way your stomach tries to crawl up your throat. I hate the taste in your mouth that no amount of water seems to wash away. And I hate the smell that hangs around your house for days afterward. Once a couple years ago I came down with a vicious case of the flu and Hutch, pal that he is, decided he was gonna help nurse me through it. Practically had to lock the bathroom door to keep him from following me inside.

Not that I wasn't grateful and all, but some things a guy just doesn't want to share with anyone, even his best buddy. For me, pukin' is definitely top of the list.

I'd barely begun to bid farewell to Hutch's strawberry shake when I realized that all the muscles you use to puke were the same ones that'd been twisted in knots from the poison. Every time I heaved it felt like someone was stabbing me in the gut with a knife. I panicked a little, tried to will my stomach to settle down, but there was no reasoning with it. All I could do was hang onto the toilet, shaking and moaning like a baby. I think if Hutch'd handed me my gun at that moment, I'd've cheerfully pulled the trigger.

The heaving tapered off, and I suddenly realized Hutch was standing in the doorway. Just to show how far gone I was--I didn't even care that he'd just had a ringside seat while I puked my guts up. I just felt bad he'd gone to all that trouble to fix me a drink that wound up in the can.

"Sorry...'bout the...shake."

I was shivering pretty hard but my face felt hot. I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of water, wishin' I could rinse the rotten taste outta my mouth. I opened them when I felt Hutch's hand on my back. He was crouched beside me on the tile, that expression on his face that's somewhere between sadness and affection.

"You finished?"

Hard not to be struck by the double meaning in that question. I felt finished all right, as if I'd used up every shred of persistence and hope I had left. Dying was starting to be less frightening than what life I had left, and that scared me.

That scared me a lot.

I dredged up a grin. "Funny you should put it that way." It was supposed to sound sarcastic but my raspy voice couldn't pull it off. Then a particularly bad shiver set my stomach into spasms and it was all I could do to keep from bawlin' like a baby.

"C'mere." Hutch tugged me until I was leaning back against him and he wiped my face and mouth with a washcloth. 

It felt... I can't even describe how it felt. He was warm and solid at my back when it seemed like everything around me was crumbling into little pieces. The cloth, cooling the burning in my cheeks and wiping away the sweat and grime, felt like heaven. But what really did me in, what gave me a lump the size of a watermelon in my throat and stung my eyes, was the way he did it--gentle but matter-of-fact, like it was no big deal to be takin' care of me that way.

Hutch ain't much for talking about his feelings--hell, neither am I. But like the old saying goes, actions speak louder than words. And sometimes, like right then, Hutch let me know how he felt loud and clear. It didn't stop the machete in my gut, but it did make me a little less afraid.

"What do you say we get you off the floor and back on the couch?"

He didn't really expect me to answer, I guess, 'cause he just started to haul me up on my feet. The pain in my belly, which had settled down to a low roar, woke right up again. Felt like I was ripping into two pieces, like if Hutch kept lifting my bottom half would just drop off and land on the floor. I grabbed his arm as hard as I could, which at that point wasn't all that hard.

"Hutch."

He stopped. Thank God, he stopped lifting and leaned back against the wall, though he kept ahold of me. "Yeah, buddy?"

Suddenly I felt like a wimp, like the biggest baby around. He was right; we couldn't just keep sitting there on the bathroom floor all night. The clock was ticking; we had to call Dobey, check in with Huggy, get the word on Wedell.

Problem was, that meant moving. And I had a pretty good idea how that was gonna feel. It was gonna hurt. Bad. And I was so damn tired of hurting.

I leaned my head back on his shoulder and blinked back tears. Jeez I was sick of blubberin' but I couldn't help myself. "I can't... I don't know if I..." My voice just up and quit on me and it took me a minute to get it working. "It hurts, Hutch."

"Let's get you to the couch. I'll call Cheryl."

I wasn't prepared to hear tears in Hutch's voice. It flipped some kind of switch inside of me, gave me the guts to get up and walk to the couch even though the pain was just as bad as I'd figured. I could take care of myself, deal with my own suffering, but I couldn't stand seein' Hutch hurt too. I'd do just about anything to make this easier for him.

He got me a glass of water and went to call Cheryl. I sat there, sipping real slow in case my stomach decided to go for an encore performance, and tried not to listen. Concentrated on how good the water felt sliding down my throat and not the hushed, desperate sound of Hutch's voice.

I don't want to do this I thought for about the millionth time. It was never supposed to end this way. It shoulda been a bullet, quick and clean.

I shouldn't have to slowly fall apart, piece by piece.

I shouldn't have to watch Hutch watching it happen.

The ride to Metro was just another part of the nightmare. I swear I could feel every bump in the road go straight through my belly, and Hutch was jumpy and tense tryin' to avoid 'em. I let him pull me outta the car but once we were inside I shrugged off his hand and did my best to look normal. Looking back now, I can see that I wasn't foolin' anybody, but at the time it was real important that I not let anyone know how bad off I was.

Everything around me faded--a uniformed cop booking a drunk, two hookers arguing with each other over who dropped a twenty, somebody banging on the candy machine for eating a quarter--until all I could see was the hallway in front of me, the path to Cheryl's lab. In the back of my head I heard a voice that sounded an awful lot like "The Little Engine That Could" whispering "keep goingkeepgoingkeepgoingkeepgoing...."

When I finally got inside I barely made it over to a stool before my legs gave out on me. I could hear the hum of voices as Hutch and Cheryl talked, the tap of his feet as he paced back and forth, but I couldn't move. Maybe if I held real still, hardly even breathed, the fire in my belly would simmer down a bit.

Then Hutch was at my side. "How ya doing, huh?"

For a college boy, my partner can sure ask some dumb questions. I hurt, I was tired, and I didn't feel like beating around the bush.

"I'm scared."

Sorry, Hutch. I just can't pretend any more.

I heard him suck in his breath. You see, we been in a lot of tight spots, Hutch and me. Even come close to dying a few times. But neither one of us has ever said the "S" word. Guess I was kinda breaking the rules to say it then, but I didn't give a damn.

Hutch leaned in close. Like I said before, we do that more than most guys I know. What we can't bring ourselves to say with words we say with touch. A hand on the arm. A pat on the back. The nudge of a shoulder. It all means the same thing.

I'm here now.

I'll still be here tomorrow.

You're not alone.

So it didn't surprise me when he stepped close and bent over me. What he said, though... Well, I wasn't prepared for that.

"I don't know what there is to be scared about. We've still got seven hours."

Was he crazy? Did he think this was some kind of joke? 'Cause from my neck of the woods things weren't lookin' too funny right now. Why in the world would he...

I remembered his face when I cracked wise about dying. The trembling of his voice when he promised to call Cheryl.

You know something, Starsk? It's always hardest on the ones left behind.

Did he realize how much he was asking from me? Then again, could he ever ask too much?

"Oh that's right. Just enough time to catch the double bill at the Rivoli and still finish that book I been readin'." I rolled my eyes.

He chuckled and the sound was worth the effort it took for me to play along. "Well we know it's not Bellamy, and we know it's not Janos. All we've got to do is to find Wedell."

I couldn't stop from pointing out the painful truth. "Only he ain't turnin' up. We got a whole police force lookin' in this city and he ain't showin'."

Hutch ducked his head, but he didn't let my doom and gloom stop him for long. "That's 'cause you and me aren't on the streets. As soon as we get back on the streets we'll turn that turkey."

Ah, Hutch. What am I gonna do with ya? Only you could make me feel like laughing in the middle of this mess.

"Probably find him in a trash can," I suggested.

His smile got bigger. "Sure."

"Hit the streets, run down a few alleys."

"Bust down a few doors."

"Get a few snitches workin'."

Hutch looked like a little kid with a brand new ball. "The guy won't have a chance."

We laughed together, and for just a moment I almost felt as normal as I'd tried to act on the way in. It felt so good.

Then my insides twisted up into a knot and stole the breath right outta my chest. I faintly heard Hutch yell at Cheryl over the buzzing in my ears and I felt someone pull the jacket off my shoulder and push up my sleeve. Something sharp jabbed my arm and the sleeve and jacket were carefully replaced.

I rubbed at the sore spot, though the sting had already faded. "Boy. That arm's been really gettin' it."

Warmth spread up my arm and down through the rest of my body. It didn't take away the broken glass in my gut, but it did soften the edges a little bit. Unfortunately, that's not all it softened. Everything around me looked a little blurry and out of focus. I blinked but it didn't make a difference. Damn. I was stoned and my stomach still hurt.

Hutch was staring at me. "You okay?"

I knew what he wanted. He wanted to hear everything was fine, that Cheryl had fixed me up and I was feelin' no pain. And I wanted to be able to give him that, but there was one problem--Hutch and me don't lie to each other. So I did my best to set his mind at ease.

"Oh yeah, I'm fine. The room's in pretty bad shape, but I'm doin' just fine."

"I can't give you anything stronger without knocking you out."

Cheryl looked so guilty--I couldn't have that. "Please, that's all I need."

Remember I said that sometimes when Hutch gets real mad he goes quiet? Well the rest of the time it's more like a volcano eruptin'. He was furious: 'bout what was happening to me, the fact that he couldn't do anything about it, and that the guy who did it was still walking around free as a bird. I could see what he really wanted to do, and it was a darn good thing for Cheryl and the department that he still had enough common sense not to go with it. So instead he started riding poor Cheryl, an innocent bystander but an easy target.

I tried to reassure her. I knew she was doin' everything she could to help me, and she was showing the long hours bent over a lab bench just as much as Hutch and me were lookin' wacked out from the sleepless night and running all over the streets.

I also knew the situation with her father wasn't good. The old man had thought the sun rose and set on that no good son of his, couldn't see how messed up he'd gotten. He was too busy grieving over a kid who wasn't worth spit to pay attention to the one who was.

So when Hutch started hasslin' her about her father, I had to stop him. "Softly. Don't antagonize the people I need." I managed a smile, even though it was pretty scrawny, and hoped he'd get the unspoken message.

You're fighting the wrong battle, pal. That ain't no way to win the war.

The lines across his forehead smoothed out and his mouth quirked just a little, letting me know he understood.

I listened to Cheryl ramble on, only half-hearing the words but reading the meaning loud and clear. It really all boiled down to one thing. There was still only a snowball's chance in hell of finding a cure for what ailed me.

And that snowball's name was Al Wedell.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~  
Hutch  
~~~~~~~~~~~

I got Starsky settled at his desk and picked up the phone to check in with Huggy. My partner had been pretty quiet since we left Cheryl and I didn't push him to talk. I knew he was still in pain and feeling a little off-kilter from whatever she'd given him. He propped his head on one fist and doodled on a pad of paper while I dialed, but I wasn't fooled by his apparent indifference. He was listening hard to every word I spoke, hoping against hope for good news.

Huggy picked up on the second ring. "Talk to me."

"It's Hutch. What's the word?"

He hesitated, and I could hear the grimace in his voice. "The word is, there ain't no word. I been bustin' my hump puttin' out word to every pimp, junkie, and snitch on the street. If anyone out there knows who hit your partner, they ain't talkin'."

"Nothing?" Starsky's head snapped up and he stared at me for a long moment before flipping open the file on Wedell and studying it with what was supposed to look like deep concentration.

"Nada. Zip. The big goose egg." His voice softened. "How is he?"

I swiveled my chair so that my back faced my partner and matched his tone. "Been better."

"Tell him I said to hang in there. I got my best people on this, somethin's bound to turn."

I looked up at the wall clock. 9:34. "Thanks, Hug."

"De nada, my man."

When I turned back to hang up the phone two intense blue eyes skewered me. "Don't do that." Starsky's voice vibrated with anger.

I opened my mouth, intending to play dumb, but he held up his hand to cut me off. He braced his forearms on the desk and leaned toward me, brows drawn together in a scowl.

"I mean it, Hutch. This is my life we're talkin' about, my fight. I need you to help me, not treat me like some dumb little kid."

I stared at him--the way his hands clenched into fists, the hunch of his shoulders, the lines of pain around his mouth--and for a split second I put myself in his shoes. Enduring excruciating pain. Betrayed by the very body I'd relied on for years to keep me safe. Slowly but surely losing the ability to fight for my own life.

And then my well-meaning but thickheaded partner decides he's gonna "protect" me, taking away the small scrap of dignity I've got left.

"I'm sorry, Starsk. Won't happen again."

Not what he expected, I guess. His eyes widened with such a look of surprise that I actually chuckled at little.

"I'm not a complete idiot, you know. I can admit when I'm wrong," I growled.

""S the only reason I keep ya around," he muttered, but there was a distinct grin in the words.

I put on a wounded expression. "And all this time I thought it was my charm and boyish good looks."

Starsky snorted, then all too predictably winced, his arms leaving the desktop to wrap around his stomach and his face losing the small amount of color that still remained.

Damn.

"Sorry." I went to put my hand on his arm, just a simple touch to let him know I was there, but I couldn't reach him across the chasm of the desk.

He gave a sharp little shake of his head, panting a little. "'M okay. Don't ever apologize...for makin' me laugh. I need..." He broke off with another short jerk of his head.

Dobey's door swung open and he stood there with the scowl on his face that he uses to mask deep emotion. "Starsky! Hutchinson! In my office."

Starsky braced his hands on the desk and pushed upright, swaying a little, Wedell's file still clutched in his hand. I automatically reached over to steady him, but pulled back when he shot me a warning glare. When we got into Dobey's office I expected he'd fold himself into a chair. Instead he stood, shoulders slightly curled from the pain it provoked in his gut.

"You two haven't phoned in a report in over three hours," Dobey barked, folding his arms across his chest. "I know nature of this case is unusual, that you've both got a personal stake in it, but that doesn't justify abandoning procedure!"

I watched him, a sick feeling uncoiling in my chest. He was trying too hard to be angry--something lurked under the surface that I just knew I wasn't going to like. I glanced at Starsky out of the corner of my eye, but he didn't seem to notice. Too absorbed with just staying upright, I think.

He gestured weakly with the folder in his hands. "Sorry, Cap. Truth is, we ain't had much to report. We got Huggy shakin' down his best informants, but nothin's turned. We ruled out Bellamy and Janos, if we could just get a line on..."

"You can stop looking. We just located your third possible." Dobey unfolded his arms and stood with hands on hips, suddenly unable to meet our eyes.

"Wedell?" I asked. The sick feeling had turned into a fist, squeezing the breath from my lungs.

Dobey nodded. "He's been dead four days. Heart attack." He bit his lip, dropping his eyes for a moment, then peering up at Starsky.

Starsky.

I turned to my partner, reeling with the shock of Dobey's news. Starsky just stood there, pale and sweaty, with blank, lifeless eyes. After a moment he turned and walked slowly from the office, never looking at me.

I knew I should acknowledge Dobey somehow. I could feel his frustration, his regret, like an additional presence in the room. I knew how much he must have hated to be the one to break such terrible news. I understood--perhaps better than either he or my partner--that the noisy, sometimes intense squabbling between them masked a deeper affection. Though you'd never catch us admitting it, both Starsky and I have a void in our lives when it comes to father figures. In his own way, Dobey's been all that, and more.

I wanted to dig up the words to let him know we understood he was doing everything he could. That we didn't blame the messenger for the message. But in the end, I was too numb to do anything but follow my partner. And just as surely as I knew all the rest, I knew Dobey understood.

I had to do something. If I'd thought I felt helpless before, it was nothing compared to the crushing weight of powerlessness that smothered me now. I stopped at the water cooler outside Dobey's office and filled one of the little paper cups. Starsky's words and my own musings filled my head, mocking me.

Pessimist says the bottle's half empty, and the optimist says it's half full.

Time wasn't in a glass. It was in a crappy little paper cup--incapable of ever holding enough to satisfy, easily crushed and broken under someone's careless heel.

And Starsky's was leaking like a sieve.

I walked over, trying not to notice the way he gripped his desk to keep from wobbling, the other arm pressed to his stomach. He lowered himself carefully into his chair and I did the same, setting the little cup of water on the blotter.

"Here's some water."

Brilliant Hutchinson. You're a never-ending source of comfort, aren't you?

Truth was, I had absolutely no idea what to say. All my previous cheerleading speeches had revolved around finding Wedell. Without him we were dead in the water, nowhere to turn.

Starsky was going to die. And the best I could do was offer him a lousy little paper cup of water.

"Detective Hutchinson?"

I could barely pry my eyes from Starsky, sitting mutely in that chair with his hand pressed to his gut, to take in the dark-haired older woman who stood hesitantly in the doorway to the squad room.

"Yeah." I scrubbed at my temples, trying to relieve the pounding headache that had started in Cheryl's lab and intensified in Dobey's office.

"Oh, excuse me, but I'm supposed to look at some pictures."

"Ah, Ted, would you help this lady out please?" I gestured vaguely in the direction of Ted Colton, knowing he and his partner were assisting on Starsky's case.

"But they said I should speak to you. You see I work at Crowley Pharmaceuticals. I was at the doctor when you folks came around--bad cold."

I stared at her, glasses on a chain around her neck and sensible shoes, the type who probably got off on the excitement of being involved in a real live police investigation. Not even trying to hide my irritation, I got up and started digging through a stack of papers on the end of Colton's desk.

"Ted, you still have those pictures around here?"

He sifted through another pile and handed them to me--the mug shots for Bellamy, Martini, and Wedell, for all the good they were gonna do us now. Still, the woman had driven all the way down to the station and would probably squawk if we sent her home without doing her civic duty. I snagged a chair and pulled it up to the desk for her.

"Here, lady, have a chair."

I recognized the fact that I was being unforgivably rude, but I just didn't care. I didn't have time for the ramblings of some wannabe detective; my partner needed me.

Starsky was digging through the drawer of his desk. He pulled out some crazy little blue dog--God only knows where he got the silly thing. Starsky has a way of picking up strays, even inanimate, stuffed ones.

I couldn't take the silence any longer. "Here, you want this water?"

"Nah." He didn't even look at me. I swallowed the water myself, in one gulp. And it wasn't enough.

"You know...if this was a cowboy movie...I'd give you my boots." His breathing was heavy, labored, like he'd just run up a bunch of stairs, but when I looked at him he smiled. A genuine smile, not the Starsky 1000 watt grin I'd come to know and love, but maybe even better. I knew what that smile was telling me, as clearly as if he'd just shouted it out loud.

He dropped his eyes, and his hand crept slowly across the desktop, palm up. Something deep inside me ripped in half, from the tip of my toes to the top of my head. I grasped the hand and his fingers closed tightly around mine.

"You're my pal, Hutch."

Oh God, I can't do this--I can't. It hurts too damn much.

I tightened my own grip, as if I could somehow keep him from slipping away. I needed to speak, needed to say something but the words weren't coming. I wished, not for the first time, that I'd come from a family like Starsky's, where love was expressed daily in words and actions. Don't get me wrong-- love was always there at the Hutchinson house. You just didn't talk about it, especially if you were a male over the age of ten. I took a deep breath...

"Officer?"

Oh God. I don't believe this.

"Offic..."

"Lady, lady, PLEASE. I'm busy!" I raised a hand to try and shut her up. "Ted, will you..."

"But the pictures! I mean the man. I do recognize this man!"

I was up on my feet in a flash, grabbing the picture. "This man?"

"Yes!"

"Vic Bellamy," I said for Starsky's benefit, though he didn't act as if he cared. I looked at the lady, trying not to scare her, though I felt like shaking the answers from her. "Y...You mean this man c...came into your place and bought some chemicals?"

"No, not chemicals! That's what's so strange. I mean, that's why I remember." Her voice was proud, triumphant. Take that you stupid policeman, you did need me! "He wanted to buy all the materials to make a leg cast."

The meaning of her statement only took a split second to sink in, hitting me like a bolt of electricity so that I actually felt light-headed. Bellamy made himself a cast so we'd think his leg was broken. As far as I could tell, there was only one reason why he'd want to do something like that.

Starsky, struggling to his feet, obviously reached the same conclusion. At that moment I could've kissed that annoying biddy, sensible shoes and all.

"Thank you! Thank you, lady, very, very much."

I left the squad room with Starsky on my heels and a renewed sense of something almost as precious--hope.

~~~~~~~~~~~  
Starsky  
~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm not sure what was worse, the pain, or the fuzzy, disconnected feeling from Cheryl's drug. I guess you could say I'm a control freak. I like to be the one in charge of my actions at all times. Which is probably why, even during my more rebellious teenage years, drugs never tempted me. No way I wanted to be doin' anything I wouldn't remember come the next morning. Or that I might regret.

Seeing Hutch strung out was a nightmare I hope I never have to relive. I was holding my partner right there in my arms, only it wasn't my partner. Desperate, angry, spiteful--he'd've done anything for a hit, even if it meant hurting me. And that just ain't Hutch. It's about as far from my gentle, considerate, caring friend as you could get. Still hurts to think about it.

So I kept quiet when Hutch and me headed to the squadroom, too miserable and loopy to try and make conversation. Hutch was kinda stumbling all over himself, not sure when to help and when to back off. He waited until I was sitting down at my desk, then picked up the phone. I didn't have to ask what he was doin'. We hadn't checked in with Huggy since leaving Hutch's place, and I could see from the tension in his shoulders that he was hopin' hard for good news.

I gotta admit, my fingers and toes were crossed too.

But I didn't want Hutch to see me hanging on his every word, so I picked up a pen and started doodling on a pad of paper. Dogs, cats, people... When me and Nicky were little and would get antsy waiting for Pop to get home, Ma'd sit us down at the kitchen table with big pads of paper and tell us to draw him a picture. Neither of us was exactly New York's answer to Rembrandt, but Pop would make a big deal of 'em when he finally walked through the door.

Sometimes when I doodle I can still hear Ma cooking dinner, humming under her breath and banging the pots and pans.

"It's Hutch. What's the word?" I heard the faint buzz of Huggy's voice through the receiver and then Hutch's sharp reply. "Nothing?"

I automatically looked up, drawn by the tone of his voice. I studied his face--the tight, guarded expression, the lines of unhappiness around those blue eyes--and then glanced away. Wedell's file was next to my elbow, so I scooped it up and tried hard to look like I was reading it.

My mind, however, was on what that one little word meant for me, and for Hutch. Any way you shook the bird, it still laid the same egg.

Movement across the desk caught my eye and I looked up again, just in time to see Hutch turn his back to me. His voice dropped, but I could hear the words. "Been better."

Anger blindsided me; I could feel the blood pounding in my head. How DARE he? Where did he get off actin' like I was made of glass? Like he needed to protect me from the cold, cruel truth? Did he think I didn't know what rotten shape I was in? Recognize how bad the odds were?

He was my partner, damn it, not my father!

"Thanks, Hug."

When he turned around to hang up the phone I was so mad that at first I could only glare at him. Finally I found my voice.

"Don't do that."

Hutch got this wide-eyed innocent look he puts on whenever he doesn't want to own up to something, but I stopped him before he could even open his mouth. I leaned in, ignoring the way it doubled the ache in my belly, and scowled at him.

"I mean it, Hutch. This is my life we're talkin' about, my fight. I need you to help me, not treat me like some dumb little kid."

Don't take away what little dignity I got left. It'll kill me faster than the poison.

"I'm sorry, Starsk. Won't happen again."

You know, I've been friends with Hutch for more than five years, but the Blond Blintz never stops surprising me. It's been that way from day one.

I remember when I first met him, back at the Academy. Those WASP, Mr. America good looks. Dressed for success, every crease in place--a wrinkle wouldn't've dared spoil those high priced threads. I looked at Mr. Kenneth, pretty boy Hutchinson and I wrote him off. Probably out for a badge because it was the one thing Daddy couldn't buy for him. Or, even more likely, because it would be just the thing to piss Daddy off. I made a private little bet with myself that he'd be gone within a week.

Shoulda known better, of course. How many times had Ma told me you can't judge a book by its cover? By the end of the week I'd thought would send him packin', I came to realize that under the spit and polish and fancy manners beat the heart of a true cop, and the soul of a true friend. He got me through exams--quizzing me when I didn't think I could possibly remember the difference between a 211 and a 187; makin' me laugh when I started to doubt whether I even cared. Showing me something new about himself just when I'd think I had him pegged. 

Like now.

He snickered a little at the expression on my face. "I'm not a complete idiot, you know. I can admit when I'm wrong."

I hate the way he makes me laugh when I'm trying to be pissed at him. It's like cheating somehow. I tried really hard not to smile, but I could feel one tugging at the corners of my mouth.

"'S the only reason I keep ya around."

Hutch did a damn good job of lookin' like I'd just hurt his feelings. "And all this time I thought it was my charm and boyish good looks."

Oh man, if that ain't the truth! Hutch could charm the spots off a leopard--don't know how many ladies I've seen fall under his spell. That's how he gets away with stuff. Dobey's always ready to blame me over Hutch, which is a real laugh because Blondie don't need my help to get in trouble.

The laugh squeaked out before I could stop it, and my stomach was right there to make me pay. Felt like my guts were about to spill right out on the floor, which'd really give 'em all something to talk about. I wrapped my arms around my middle and tried to take a few deep breaths.

Hutch's face crumpled and he tried to reach across the desk. "Sorry."

"'M okay. Don't ever apologize...for makin' me laugh. I need..."

How could I explain to him that he was the only thing that stopped me from just layin' down? The poison was slowly taking me over, making it harder and harder to remember David Starsky was still alive underneath. Hutch by my side, giving me comfort and laughter, wouldn't let me forget.

"Starsky! Hutchinson! In my office."

Dobey's bellow was so familiar, so normal, it took away a little of the agony when I pushed myself onto my feet. Hutch tried to give me a hand but I sent him a look that told him to back off. I could feel eyes on me as I walked into Dobey's office, knew I was today's hot topic at the water cooler. Last thing I wanted was to give 'em anything extra to discuss.

When we got inside I didn't flop into my usual chair and prop my feet on the Cap's desk. Took everything I had just to get where I was, and I was afraid if I sat down again I might not make it back up.

Dobey lambasted us as soon as he'd shut the door. "You two haven't phoned in a report in over three hours! I know nature of this case is unusual, that you've both got a personal stake in it, but that doesn't justify abandoning procedure!"

Dobey likes to ride me--sometimes pretty hard. It's the nature of our relationship; the dance we dance. I push the limits of policy and procedure and Dobey gives me hell for it. I know the yelling and bluster is mostly just for show. Under it all, he cares about Hutch and me and would do just about anything for us. And I respect him--not something I'd say about just anyone. His honest, straightforward, "take no crap" attitude reminds me of my Pop. Can't give a higher compliment than that.

This time, though, I could sense he was tryin' too hard. Yeah, Hutch and me had kinda taken the investigation into our own hands, but Dobey woulda expected as much. All his grumblin' about procedure was just a smoke screen for something else. I didn't really want to think about what it might be.

"Sorry, Cap. Truth is, we ain't had much to report." I suddenly realized I'd carried Wedell's folder with me and I waved it. "We got Huggy shakin' down his best informants, but nothin's turned. We ruled out Bellamy and Janos, if we could just get a line on..."

"You can stop looking. We just located your third possible."

I stared at him, my mouth bone dry. No way this was good news, Dobey's face was too grim.

Next to me, Hutch caught his breath. "Wedell?"

"He's been dead four days. Heart attack." 

It was over. Just like that. Three strikes you're out. I turned around and walked out, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket of shock. Dobey, Hutch, bright lights on empty desks, the shuffling sound of Ted Colton digging through a filing cabinet--it all seemed muffled and far away.

I stood in front of my desk and looked down. All the files and notes spread across the top, wasted time and effort. Suddenly the blanket was gone, ripped away, and every muscle and bone in my body hurt more than I'd ever've thought possible. Wedell had been my beacon, the light in the darkness I'd been sure would bring me home safe. 'Cept the light burned out four days ago, and we were just too dumb to know it.

Time to face facts, I told myself, brushing away Hutch's offer of water. I was gonna die. Hutch and me had gambled and lost, and nothing he could do--not anger, or tears, or a little paper cup of water was gonna make a difference.

But there was something I could do.

I could make sure I let this man--my partner, my friend--know what he meant to me. 

I remember reading about something Martin Luther King, Jr. said.  
He said your life ain't worth living unless you've found something worth dying for.

Hutch did that for me. He gave me more than just partnership, or even friendship. He gave me a wall I could put my back against when everything around me was shaky and outta control. A rock when I was sinking in quicksand.

An anchor in the middle of a hurricane.

Ah, hell, I was sounding like a Hallmark card, but I didn't really care anymore. I couldn't die without just once sayin' the words Hutch deserved to hear.

Hutch had been dealing with some lady from Crowley Pharmaceuticals who'd come in to look at the pictures of Bellamy, Janos, and Wedell. If I'd been less preoccupied with my own thoughts, I'd've laughed at the rude way he shoved her off on Ted Colton. Hutch is normally the Emily Post half of this partnership; I'm the one who tends to piss people off.

I dug through the top drawer of my desk and pulled out a silly blue stuffed poodle. Helen gave it to me, once upon a time when we were in love and thought that was enough. She made some joke about the similarities between a poodle and the curly mop of hair genetics stuck me with. I'd boxed up most of the memories from our time together, but I just couldn't seem to bring myself to get rid of that ugly little dog.

Hutch finished getting the lady set up with the pictures and sat back down. He looked tired and sad.

"Here, you want this water?"

"Nah." I fiddled with the poodle, trying to come up with the words to tell him what was in my heart. Then I remembered an old John Wayne movie we once watched on the late show.

"You know...if this was a cowboy movie...I'd give you my boots." 

He looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time since Dobey broke the bad news. I studied his face, knowing it better than I do my own, and the last thing I wanted to do was leave him. It hurt me so much more than the fire in my gut. I smiled until I had to look away or let him see it. And I stretched out my hand, not caring anymore about Ted or the woman, just needing to know Hutch understood. The warmth of his fingers in mine told me he did.

"You're my pal, Hutch."

His hand tightened and he took a shaky little breath like he was about to say something, but our star witness interrupted.

"Officer!"

I felt the connection between us break like someone had cut it with a pair of scissors. 

Damn it!

Hutch sounded like he'd blown a fuse. "Lady, lady, PLEASE. I'm busy! Ted, will you..."

I tuned out the conversation, too tired and miserable to be bothered. So close, I was so close to sayin' the things I needed to say, and now...

"Vic Bellamy." Hutch's voice yanked my attention back to the woman. I knew he was excited by the way he started to stutter. "Y...You mean this man c...came into your place and bought some chemicals?"

Hope fluttered in my chest, like the wings of a small, weak bird.

"No, not chemicals! That's what's so strange. I mean, that's why I remember. He wanted to buy all the materials to make a leg cast."

Oh. My. God.

I hauled myself to my feet, my body figuring out the answer before my brain, and stumbled after Hutch. It might be the last time, but Hutch wasn't goin' anywhere without me to watch his back.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~  
Starsky  
~~~~~~~~~~~

It was gettin' bad. Real bad.

I sat there in the Torino, Hutch driving like a maniac, and I knew I was scraping the bottom of the barrel. What little bit of relief Cheryl's shot had given me was gone; the pain had spread from my gut up into my chest and it was gettin' harder and harder to breathe. I had to keep both hands clasped in my lap so Hutch wouldn't see that they shook like I was a wino with a bad case of the DTs. And everything around me had developed this annoying habit of fading in and outta focus like someone was adjusting a giant camera lens.

No doubt about it, I was circling the drain. But I'd be damned if I'd let Hutch know, especially when he was so excited about the lead on Bellamy. I wanted to believe as badly as my partner that we'd ride in, nab the bad guy, and head off into the sunset with a cure, but my body had other ideas. 

And there were things that had to be said.

I braced myself, knowin' Hutch wasn't gonna want to hear 'em.

"Hutch."

"Yeah, Starsk?" He snuck a quick peek at me, then hunched a little further over the steering wheel. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were bright from the adrenaline rush, his whole body thrumming with the chance to finally DO something. I almost felt sorry for Bellamy.

Almost.

I cleared my throat, but the sand in it wouldn't go away. "I never called Ma."

His head snapped around. "What? I thought you said you called her when we stopped by your place for clothes."

I shifted a little, looking for a comfortable position I knew I'd never find, and kept my tone patient. "I said I was gonna call her." I looked out the window at the passing cars. "I never did."

Hutch looked back at the road, fingers tightening on the wheel. After a minute he gave a little nod. "You want to tell me why not?"

To give her the gift I couldn't give you. To spare her the horror of watching me die.

I swallowed again, feelin' it catch in my throat. "Ma didn't like to talk about the night Pop died--hurt too much, I guess. One time, though, I was goin' on about how unfair it was to lose him that way. To never have the chance to say good-bye and tell him I loved him. There was some father-son thing at school, see, and I was the only one of my friends goin' stag. 

"Ma pulled me down next to her on the couch and put her arm around me. She said at least we never had to see him suffer--to die slowly of cancer or a stroke, crippled and helpless. We could remember him like he was, and our memories'd keep him with us. And she told me Pop already knew we loved him from the little ways we showed him every single day."

Hutch stretched his arm across the seatback and rested his hand on my shoulder. "Your mom's a pretty smart lady."

"Yeah." I blinked back the fogginess and tried to take a deep breath. Neither action was much of a success. "I didn't want her to sit by the phone, eating herself up with worry over what was happening to me. And I for damn sure didn't want her gettin' on a plane and comin' out here to see it."

Hutch's voice was very soft. "Okay."

Now for the hard part. "Hutch. If this don't... If Bellamy ain't..." I bit my lip hard enough to draw blood, but it did the trick. "I need you to be the one to call Ma. Promise me, Hutch."

I thought for a minute he was gonna drive us right into a parked car. His hand left my shoulder and he swerved just in time, then turned to glare at me. "What's the matter with you? Bellamy's our man; I'll make book on it! Once we have him we have the answer..."

"Promise me," I repeated. Calm. Quiet.

"Don't you DARE give up on me now, Starsk, not when we're so close I can taste it! We're gonna get that antidote, you just need to hold on, you need..."

"I need you to promise." My voice cracked and I had to look away from the hurt and betrayal in Hutch's eyes. I tried again, but it came out a whisper. "Please."

Hutch turned back to driving, his jaw clamped tight. "I promise." The words came through his teeth, sharp, clipped.

It was almost enough. "Tell her... Tell her I knew."

Hutch didn't say anything, but his hand crept to the back of my neck. I knew he'd take care of things, and the knowin' was like a huge weight lifted off my shoulders.

We pulled to the curb at Bellamy's apartment. Hutch was out of his seat and around to my side of the car before I'd done more than swing the door open. I started to stand but my legs weren't cooperating. Hutch caught me before I hit the pavement and propped me against the car.

"I'll take it, I'll take it." 

I grabbed onto his jacket, trying not to slide down into a little ball. "I, uh, as they say, have vested interests in this case. Besides, he's our only lead."

Hutch dropped his forehead onto my shoulder, but not in time to keep me from seeing the grief in his eyes. "What am I gonna do with you, huh?"

I wove my fingers through the hair at the back of his neck and pulled. "Same as always, pal. Watch and marvel."

He snorted and pulled away, grabbing my arm and propelling me along with him. When we got inside I took a long look at the stairs, hoping Hutch wouldn't see how discouraged I felt. Those steps coulda been Mt. Everest--with my vision shot to hell and my chest in a vise they seemed just as impossible to climb.

When I grabbed onto the railing, Hutch let go of me and started up. I did my best to follow, but I couldn't help falling farther and farther behind. Sweat was running into my eyes, makin' 'em sting and burn, my legs shook like Jell-O, and every breath sliced through my chest like a razorblade. Hutch kept looking over his shoulder, tryin' not to get too far ahead, but I could tell he was torn between helping me and goin' after Bellamy.

About two-thirds of the way up, my legs disappeared. Oh, they were still there, but you wouldn't've known it for all the good they were doin' me. I went down hard, arms over my gut to try and spare my stomach, but the pain was still bad enough that the edges of my vision went dark and bright little sparks of light obliterated everything else.

Hutch pulled me up and held me for a minute. "You want to wait here?"

It was so tempting. All I wanted to do was curl into a little ball and not move. Only trouble was, that left Hutch alone in pursuit of a dangerous felon. Murder... Attempted murder of a police officer is a serious crime. Bellamy didn't really have much to lose.

I shook my head, scrubbing at my eyes with the back of my hand. "No. Keep goin'."

"You are the most stubborn son of a bitch, I..." Hutch trailed off, and I wasn't really sure if I'd heard anger or admiration in his words. 

I tried to form my mouth into a smile. "Said...the pot." Breathing was starting to be awful hard work and I felt dizzy. "Let's go."

Hutch hauled me up the rest of the stairs and down the hall to Bellamy's door, which was wide open. The charming Mrs. Bellamy was standing in the middle of the room, fiddling with her dress and pretending like she didn't know we were there. Hutch leaned me against the jamb and I grabbed on, gulping in air like a fish. He moved into the apartment, gun ready, and started lookin' around. 

"Where is he?"

"I didn't want to lie, he made me," she whined.

Damn. How did Bellamy stand to listen to that voice? It'd drive any man to a life of crime.

Hutch looked ready to make it murder. He stalked across the room and grabbed her by the arm, hard enough to leave fingerprints. "Where is he?"

"The roof!"

Hutch let her go and she rubbed at her arm, still not lookin' at me. He leaned in close to me on his way out the door, his grip on my arm as gentle as it'd been rough on hers.

"Stay here."

I couldn't argue with him; I knew I was only putting his life at risk, slowing him down and distracting him from what he needed to do. And that hurt even more than the pain in my chest. All at once, I saw how selfish I'd been to insist I come along. I shoulda stayed back at Metro, shoulda insisted another cop go with Hutch to back him up. It was my damn pride that stopped me, always thinking that no one could protect Hutch as good as me.

Fine job I was doin' right then.

"I didn't want to lie. He made me."

Who was she tryin' to convince? I wanted to walk over, grab her by those skinny little arms, and shake her 'til her teeth rattled. But my tank was nearly empty, and I had something else to take care of.

"He got a gun?"

"Yes."

Beautiful. Bellamy already had a head start. He'd've picked a spot, gone to ground, and would just be waiting for Hutch to walk onto that roof. Hutch was headed right into a trap.

"That's terrific."

I'd always heard stories about people doin' things in a crisis that they'd never be able to do otherwise. Kinda like temporarily gettin' superpowers. Supposed to be because of a huge adrenaline rush or something.

That's the only way I can explain how I made it up the stairs to the roof. Felt a little bit like I'd left my body and was watching myself from a distance. I don't know how long it took me. Seemed like hours, but it couldn't've been more than a few minutes. One time my legs did their disappearing trick again, and I was scared that without Hutch I'd never make it back on my feet. I crawled up the next few steps until I could grab onto the railing and pull myself back up. It hurt so bad I was sure I must've shredded my insides.

First time I visited my Aunt Rosie, when I was jut a little kid, she showed me a conch shell. She explained how the sound of the ocean was trapped inside, and she held it to my ear so I could listen. That same rushing, hissing sound, only about ten times louder, was drowning out everything but the pounding of my heart. I could faintly hear gunshots, and Hutch yelling at Bellamy, but I couldn't make out the words.

When I got to the top of the stairs, I eased through the doorway onto the roof. I was operating on automatic pilot, instinct the only thing keepin' me on my feet. More gunshots, and I squinted, tryin' to see if Hutch had Bellamy cornered. 

It was just the opposite, though. Hutch was crouched behind a vent, hiding, and Bellamy was on the offensive. I watched, horrified, as my partner turned and ran for cover with Bellamy's bullets exploding around him.

What the hell...?

Then it clicked. Hutch wasn't shooting at Bellamy 'cause he was afraid--not for himself, for me. Kill ol' Vic, and you'd kill any chance we had of finding out what was in that shot.

Bellamy, on the other hand, didn't have anything to be scared of except ending up doin' time. A lot of very hard time.

And just like that, I knew what I had to do. I hadn't been able to spare Hutch the agony of watching me die. But there was one last gift I could give him.

Life.

I could hardly lift my piece--felt like it weighed fifty pounds. My breath kept catching on the way down my throat and my hands shook. I sighted down the barrel, blinking hard to try and stop things from shimmering and blurring. Finally, everything slid into focus and I squeezed hard on the trigger. Bellamy was aiming his weapon at Hutch; he never saw it comin'.

I don't know how many rounds I fired--I think I might've emptied the clip. I guess zoned out for a while, 'cause the next thing I knew Hutch was at my side, easing the gun outta my hand. An elephant was sittin' on my chest, and the harder I tried to breathe the heavier it got. The ocean in my ears had turned into a hurricane, and my eyelids had developed a mind of their own, slipping shut in spite of my attempts to keep 'em open. 

Hutch leaned his head next to mine, almost touching, and his voice was soft. "Thanks, buddy. What did ya have to do that for? He was the only guy that knew."

You know the answer to that, buddy. We both do.

"Seemed to be a good idea at the time." My legs folded and I barely felt Hutch grab me as I slid down the wall. Everything narrowed down to a little pinpoint of light as Bellamy, Hutch, and even the pain faded away.

Game over.

The light winked out.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~  
Hutch  
~~~~~~~~~~~

I felt a little bit like a bird out of a cage. At last we had a name, something to do. Flying down the street in the Torino, taking the corners so fast the tires squealed, my spirits lifted for the first time all day. We'd collar Bellamy, force him to confess what was in that hypo, and Starsky would have his cure.

Starsky.

He was the only one to dampen my enthusiasm; a nagging reminder that nothing was as simple as I wanted it to be. I could hear the rasp of his breathing and I'd caught glimpses of his shaking hands, though he tried hard to hide them. I never should have allowed him to come with me, he belonged back at Metro--or better yet, the hospital. He was so sick he could barely function, and it would be difficult for me to concentrate on Bellamy if I was covering for him.

But I'd seen the look in his eyes, the determination on his face, and I couldn't say no. Starsky has a way of doing that to me.

"Hutch." His voice was soft. Hesitant.

"Yeah, Starsk?"

"I never called Ma."

"What?" I took my eyes off the road to glare at him, which wasn't a good idea considering the speed we were traveling. "I thought you said you called her when we stopped by your place for clothes."

Starsky used the careful, patient tone of voice that always makes me feel like a moron. "I said I was gonna call her. I never did."

I was only half-listening to him, most of my brain focused on what I planned to do to Bellamy once I got my hands on him. My mind was full of little daydreams: chasing Vic down like a dog until he was gasping for breath, shoving my gun up under his chin hard until he was sweating and shaking, delivering a few well-placed punches that would have his gut cramping in pain. Every little agony he'd brought upon Starsky I wanted him to experience--tenfold. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

I forced myself back to the present. "You want to tell me why not?"

When Starsky started recounting the things his mom told him, all thoughts of Bellamy flew out of my head. He mentions his dad fairly often, but I could count on one hand the number of times he's talked about the night his father died or his own grief. I pictured how he'd been, so lost and angry, and I had to agree with that long ago kid--it wasn't fair.

I mean, you've got two boys who are roughly the same age. One has a relationship with his father that at best could be described as mutually respectful. Oh sure, there's love, but it's implied not spoken aloud, and certainly not openly demonstrated. The other kid worships the ground his dad walks on, tries to imitate his every move. They're very close--sometimes more like best friends than father and son--and love is expressed freely in words and touches.

Now if you were God and you had to take away one kid's father, which would you choose?

Guess God doesn't think much like you and me, huh?

I shook myself out of my thoughts and put my hand on his shoulder. "Your mom's a pretty smart lady."

"Yeah." Starsky's harsh, ragged breathing sounded overly loud in the car. "I didn't want her to sit by the phone, eating herself up with worry over what was happening to me. And I for damn sure didn't want her gettin' on a plane and comin' out here to see it."

There wasn't much I could say to that. I wasn't sure Starsky had made the right decision, but I also hated the thought of Rachel enduring what I had the past 18 hours. It would kill her. "Okay."

I guess I should've seen where my partner was headed, but Bellamy's face kept dancing at the edges of my vision, distracting me. When Starsky finally did get to the point, I nearly drove us off the road.

"Hutch. If this don't... If Bellamy ain't... I need you to be the one to call Ma. Promise me, Hutch."

I snatched my hand off his shoulder as if I'd been burned, and in some ways maybe I had. Anger pumped through my body like white-hot blood and if he hadn't looked so terrible I swear to God I would've hit him.

"What's the matter with you? Bellamy's our man; I'd make book on it! Once we have him we have the answer..."

He didn't get angry, but he didn't let up either. "Promise me."

"Don't you DARE give up on me now, Starsk, not when we're so close I can taste it! We're gonna get that antidote, you just need to hold on, you need..." How could he do this to me? I'd been there for him every step of the way, why couldn't he do the same for me?

"I need you to promise. Please."

The rough little catch in his voice did me in. I turned away, because if I didn't I was going to wind up causing a soapy scene. Starsky would never forgive me for that. "I promise."

"Tell her... Tell her I knew."

She told me Pop already knew we loved him from the little ways we showed him every single day.

Ah, Starsk. We know too.

I cupped my fingers around the back of his neck and held them there. His shoulders, which had been hunched up around his ears, sagged, and I knew my answer had given him a sense of peace. 

I couldn't say the same for myself.

When we got to Bellamy's building I hit the pavement running. Starsky was trying valiantly to haul himself out of the car but didn't seem to be getting anywhere. It hit me again that he had no business being with me. I grabbed him and leaned him up against the car.

"I'll take it, I'll take it."

I should have known better. When had Starsky ever taken "no" for an answer?

His fingers burrowed into my jacket as if that could keep him from sliding down into a Starsky-puddle on the cement. "I, uh, as they say, have vested interests in this case. Besides, he's our only lead."

I wanted to feel anger again, but our conversation in the car seemed to have taken that option away. He was weak as a kitten, barely able to draw a breath, in excruciating pain...

And so damn brave.

My throat closed up so I dropped my forehead to his shoulder. "What am I going to do with you, huh?"

He stroked the hair at the nape of my neck, then pulled hard enough to startle me. "Same as always, pal. Watch and marvel."

It was just what I needed to snap me out of my funk. I chuffed a little laugh and slipped my arm under his, taking most of his weight as we walked up the steps and into the apartment building. The winding flight of stairs leading to the third floor mocked us both. Starsky took one look before ducking his head, but I'd already seen the hopelessness in his eyes. In his condition, those steps must have looked as impossible as climbing to the moon.

What I did next felt just as hard as climbing a mountain. When Starsky grabbed onto the railing, I let go. I moved around him so that I could lead the way, figuring I'd be in much better shape than my partner should things turn ugly. I tried to pace myself so that he could keep up with me, but my eagerness to reach Bellamy kept speeding up my feet.

We were over halfway up the stairs when I heard Starsky go down. Thank God he saved himself from tumbling down the entire flight, but I could see agony in the curl of his body and his glazed eyes. I pulled him up and held him while the breath wheezed in and out of his lungs in jagged gulps.

"You want to wait here?"

My pigheaded partner wouldn't take the hint. "No, keep goin'."

My emotions were all tangled up. I wanted to hug him and slug him all at the same time. "You are the most stubborn son of a bitch, I..."

He put on the poorest excuse for a smile I've ever seen. "Said...the pot. Let's go."

I pretty much carried him the rest of the way. He tried to help me as much as he could, but his coordination was shot to hell and I think he had to concentrate on just breathing. Bellamy's door was wide open--not a good sign. I propped Starsky against the jamb and moved inside, alert for any nasty little surprises. Like Ol' Vic popping out of a closet, for example.

His wife never even turned around when I walked inside, she just stood in the middle of the room. The leg cast--now missing its owner--was lying on a chair. In my eyes she was just as guilty as Vic, she'd helped him fool us the first time around. Just the sight of the conniving little bitch made my blood pressure rise.

"Where is he?"

"I didn't want to lie, he made me."

Yeah, right, lady. I saw the gun pointed to your head.

It takes a lot for me to rough up a woman, but I was way past the point of worrying about my manners. I grabbed her hard by the soft flesh of her upper arm and squeezed.

"Where is he?"

"The roof!"

So much for loyalty to her husband. I knew instinctively that she wasn't lying. Too worried about saving her own skin.

I crossed to where Starsky still had a death grip on the doorjamb and leaned in close--a poor attempt at some privacy. "Stay here."

He didn't even try to argue. The reality of that hit me hard, like a sucker punch, but I shrugged it off and headed up the stairs to the roof. There was only one way to help Starsky now, and that involved me and my buddy Vic having a little heart to heart.

When I got to the top of the stairs, the door to the roof was shut but not locked. I took a deep breath and dove through, somersaulting across the cement to land on my stomach. Bellamy was nowhere in sight, but I could sense eyes watching me.

"Vic!" I lifted my head enough to pan the rooftop but still keep it attached to my shoulders. "Vic, it's not murder one yet!"

I knew in my heart that he wasn't going to surrender. Bellamy was the type to go down kicking and screaming--and doing his best to take everyone else with him. But I had to give him the chance. "What was in the hypo?"

Silence. Not a whisper of movement. I was getting desperate.

"Vic, give it up!"

He was cool, all right. Stay put. Make me go on the offensive and just wait for a good shot. The ticking clock really left me with no choice. I cautiously eased myself onto my feet, hoping I wasn't issuing an open invitation to blow my head off. 

"Vic!"

Movement from the corner of my eye and I threw myself into another forward roll just as a bullet whizzed past my left shoulder. I crouched behind a skylight but when I brought my head up he fired again. Great! We had a regular Mexican standoff going.

Vic got off another round and ran, giving me a clear shot at his back. I popped up and aimed, shouting a warning.

"Hold it! Hold it!"

Vic continued to sprint across the roof and skidded under the cover of a vent while I stood there, frozen, heart lurching.

My God, how could I have been so stupid? One misplaced bullet and I'd sign my partner's death warrant. I was engaged in a gun battle with a man I couldn't afford to shoot.

I swallowed, my dry throat clicking, and on cat feet started to circle around to the left of where Vic hid. Unfortunately, Bellamy shared my little epiphany.

"Whatsa matter, Hutchinson? Didja lose your piece?" He laughed, a low spiteful chortle that had very little to do with amusement.

He had about as mean a laugh as I've ever heard.

The thought of Bellamy laughing that way as he injected poison into Starsky made my gun finger twitch. Bellamy didn't quit; he was starting to have a good time.

"Or maybe you're afraid to shoot, huh? Kill me and you kill your partner, right?"

Oh God, Starsky, he's right. How in the hell am I going to get us out of this?

I spun on my heel and ran back for the cover of a vent I'd left behind. Another bullet passed so close to my cheek I felt a puff of air, and I barely ducked in time. In the blink of an eye the game had changed, Bellamy in the role of cat and me playing mouse. I retreated further, dodging more gunfire, but Bellamy's confidence was growing and he was getting bolder.

"You're dead, Hutchinson."

He was right. I crouched behind the vent, sweat trickling between my shoulderblades, heart thudding hard enough to burst through my ribs, and felt despair take me under like a gigantic wave. I was dead. I could hear the scrape and shuffle of Bellamy's feet on the rough surface of the roof as he cautiously crept up to take his final shot, and I was powerless to stop him. I'd die a thousand deaths before I'd sacrifice Starsky to save my own skin.

Forgive me, Starsk. Looks like I'll be leading the way again.

When the shots came I jerked, expecting to feel pain sear through my flesh. The dull swap of Bellamy's body hitting the concrete brought me to my senses, and I jerked my head up to see Starsky leaning in the doorway, gun loosely clasped in one limp hand.

Bellamy didn't move.

I crept cautiously over and grabbed him by both wrists, flipping him onto his back with one quick snap. Knotting my fists in his jacket, I lifted him up for a good, long look. His eyes were open wide and fixed, like two glass marbles, his body pliant.

Dead.

Silent.

I lowered him slowly and picked up his gun, the movements automatic as my mind whirled in circles like a dog chasing its tail. Starsky was still propped against the wall, barely conscious, his eyes little more than slits and his respiration jagged and grating. I pocketed Bellamy's piece and walked over, easing Starsky's gun from his lax fingers. I don't think he even noticed.

My heart twisted and I leaned against the wall, so close my forehead nearly brushed his. I forced words out through lips that felt like stone. "Thanks, buddy. What did ya have to do that for? He was the only guy that knew."

At first I didn't think he could answer me. Every ounce of strength he had left was spent sucking in pitifully shallow gulps of air. His voice was almost expressionless, but I saw one eyebrow try valiantly to lift. "Seemed to be a good idea at the time."

He looked at me then, those dark blue eyes locking onto mine as if desperate to communicate something more than his words. As I watched, they glazed over and he slipped slowly down the wall. I caught him, easing him the rest of the way. Held him up as his eyes fluttered shut and his chin dropped to his chest.

I gripped him tightly, tugging until he sagged bonelessly into my arms, and murmured soft, reassuring words even though I knew he couldn't hear me.

Inside, though, I was screaming.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~  
Hutch  
~~~~~~~~~~~

With impeccable timing, the coroner and crime lab folks arrived at the same time as the ambulance. What I didn't expect, was that Dobey would be with them.

After Starsky passed out, I'd dashed down to Bellamy's apartment just long enough to make phone calls to the precinct and the hospital before returning to the roof. Leaving him for those few minutes was like cutting off my right hand, but I saw no way around it. Starsky needed help and Bellamy needed a body bag, and sitting on my ass wasn't going to accomplish either one.

Bellamy's wife had grudgingly allowed me to use the phone, sniveling at my elbow until she heard me ask for a coroner's wagon. She ran out of the apartment then, shrieking Vic's name loud enough to wake the dead--no pun intended--and was collapsed over his body when I got back to Starsky.

I looked at her, and I felt nothing.

I gathered Starsky's limp body back into my arms and sat there, the rough brick gouging into my back and unshed tears burning my eyes and throat. I talked to my partner, praying to God that the sound of my voice would reach him and anchor him to me for just a little longer. I didn't let myself think past the words of comfort and encouragement. Bellamy was dead. My subconscious knew what that meant, but I refused to allow the knowledge out of its locked box. I just rested my chin on top of those dark curls and said whatever came into my head.

"You know, you always did have more guts than brains. I mean, did you really stop to think about what you were doing, emptying your entire clip into Bellamy like that? Talk about overkill. Wouldn't one or two have been enough?"

Of course, I knew the answer to that, too. One or two might have left Bellamy in good enough shape to pull the trigger of his own weapon. One or two might have left me the one lying sprawled on the cement, my eyes looking up at the stars without seeing them. Starsky had known exactly what he was doing, to Bellamy, and to himself.

"'Seemed to be a good idea at the time,'" I grouched, but my voice spoiled the effect by trembling. "What kind of a reason is that anyway? Pretty poor one, if you ask me. Starsk, you never..."

He wasn't breathing. The abrupt silence, after the regular pattern of ragged gasps, hit my ear as violently as a scream. I sat forward, goosebumps breaking out over my entire body.

"Starsky? Starsk?"

His head lolled like a rag doll and one hand fell from his lap to the cement with a soft slap. I grasped him by the shoulders and shook, hard.

"Don't you dare do this to me, Starsky! Don't you quit on me! You breathe, damn it! BREATHE!" I punctuated each sentence with a shake, the last one snapping his head back and forth until I was afraid I'd broken his neck. 

The sharp, shallow gasp for air that followed was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard. Starsky coughed weakly and his hands twitched, but he didn't open his eyes. An ambulance wailed in the distance.

I pulled him against me, wrapping one hand around his struggling chest and briskly rubbing his arm with the other. "That's it babe, keep it up. In and out. In and out."

I didn't even realize I'd been crying until I felt the moisture on my cheeks.

I had a crazy feeling of deja vu when the paramedics shoved me out of the way and started working on Starsky. The crime lab guys were right on their heels, the coroner bringing up the rear about five minutes later. I stood aside, unable to tear my eyes from what was happening to my partner, though I knew I should be briefing forensics on what had happened. They tried to talk to me, but their questions were just a faint buzzing in my ear, like an annoying mosquito. The paramedics' voices, though, were coming through loud and clear.

"Pulse is weak and thready."

"B.P.'s 140 over 100, respiration 35 and shallow. He's cyanotic, start him on O2."

"Pupils equal and reactive. Let's get an I.V. hooked up and get him to Memorial. Dr. Franklin's waiting for him."

Dobey's large hand on my shoulder almost made me jump out of my skin. "How is he?" 

The question was directed toward Starsky, but his eyes were burrowing into mine. I suddenly realized I'd never bothered to wipe the tears from my face.

Big boys don't cry, Kenny. Pull yourself together.

I mentally elbowed my father out of the way, but I scrubbed a hand across my cheeks. "Not good. He passed out after shooting Bellamy and he st...stopped breathing once."

Dobey's brow furrowed. "Did Bellamy get a chance to tell you anything?"

Maybe you're afraid to shoot, huh? Kill me and you kill your partner, right?

"Only that he was responsible for poisoning Starsky." I watched as the paramedics efficiently loaded my partner onto the gurney, tucking the I.V. bottle at his side.

"Go with him," Dobey ordered, voice gruff. "I'll wrap things up here and meet you at the hospital."

I looked at him, too overcome to find my voice. Evidently he read my expression because he waved me off and grabbed the arm of the nearest paramedic.

"That man is a police officer in protective custody. Officer Hutchinson will be accompanying him in the ambulance."

I could've kissed him, but I settled for a look of extreme gratitude. Dobey, always a little uncomfortable with that kind of thing, just motioned for me to stay with my partner. I pressed the keys to the Torino into his palm as I passed, and he bobbed his head in understanding.

We were about five minutes from the hospital when Starsky started to come around. The oxygen must have been helping, because his color looked a little better and his breathing wasn't quite so labored. His eyelids fluttered and that hand started roaming across the sheets. I leaned in close and put mine on his arm.

"Hey, partner. 'Bout time you decided to join us."

Blue peered out from under his lashes and a wrinkle appeared between his eyes. The hand I didn't have pinned wandered up to tug the oxygen mask off his mouth.

"Ya look terrible." Weak and raspy, but Starsky shone through.

I mustered a smile. "Yeah? Well you should take a look at your own ugly mug, buddy. You wouldn't win any beauty contests yourself." I saw the paramedic stretch out his hand to replace the mask, but beat him too it. "Leave it alone, Starsk. You need it."

The ambulance hit a pothole and Starsky convulsed in pain, his fingers digging into the sheets.

"Hey, take it easy, would you?" I snapped at the driver. "We're headed for the hospital, not the demolition derby!"

"Dr. Franklin said he could have Demerol for the pain," the other paramedic told me quietly, and pulled out a syringe. 

Starsky's eyes went wide and he started shaking his head. "Hutch, no. Don't...don't let him!"

I shifted my body to block his view and laid a calming hand on his chest. "It's all right, Starsk, he's just going to give you something for the pain."

The panic left his eyes but he clutched at my sleeve. The mask muffled his already thin voice, though I could still understand the words. "Hutch...pain don't matter. Not much time...things to say."

I smiled at him, even though it hurt. "Game's not over till it's over, Starsk. I know how bad you're hurting. Take the drugs, you don't have anything to tell me that I don't already know."

One corner of his mouth turned up a little bit, but the Demerol must've been doing its job, because his eyelids started to droop. "Doesn't mean...shouldn't be said."

I never realized you could have your heart cut out and still live. Maybe I was just some kind of medical miracle.

"Save it. I'll buy you a steak dinner when this is all over, and you can tell me then."

Franklin was waiting at the emergency room entrance. He whisked Starsky into a treatment room, tossing me an apologetic look as the double doors swung shut.

Deja vu again.

I drank bad coffee and paced until Dobey arrived. He didn't even try to discuss Bellamy or the case, just sat beside me on an uncomfortable plastic chair that was way too small for his bulk.

"He saved my life." I had to say it, had to speak the words aloud even though we both already knew them. "Bellamy's dead and Starsky's dying, all because the stubborn fool wouldn't stay put when I told him to."

Dobey ran a hand down his face and turned toward me, cocking an eyebrow. "Sounds like something you'd do, doesn't it?"

I looked at him and started laughing, but the edges were broken and jagged, and it sounded a lot more like crying. One of the treatment room doors swung outward and Franklin motioned to me, his face grave.

"You can see your partner for a few minutes."

My legs felt weak and wobbly as I crossed the hallway to the door. When I stepped inside, Franklin was giving Starsky a shot of something while a nurse held an oxygen mask on his face and blotted perspiration with a soft, white cloth. His eyes were open, but glazed--probably from drugs since he didn't appear to be in pain and the heart monitor beeped steadily.

Franklin crossed to my side. "I'm sorry. We're going to have to take him upstairs now." I tore my eyes from Starsky's face to acknowledge his words. "If his timetable is right, he has less than two hours."

I managed to nod, when what I really wanted to do was to start swinging my fists at every useless piece of equipment in the room. I walked slowly to Starsky's side, taking his hand and leaning over so that he could see my face without having to lift his head. 

"Hey, buddy. I...I have to go now." I knew he understood. The doc had things he needed to do, tests to run and treatments to try that I couldn't be a part of. I couldn't help Starsky here. I still felt as if I were abandoning him.

"Okay." He looked so weary and strung out, a pale imitation of my friend, my brother.

Maybe my feelings showed on my face because as I started to back away, Starsky stopped me.

"Hey." It wasn't much more than a whisper. I caught it more from the movement of his lips than hearing the word.

"Yeah?"

I think the idea that Starsky and I have some kind of "psychic connection" has been way overblown by other people in the Department. We've known each other a long time, and we've spent a good chunk of that time relying on each other for our lives. All good partnerships have an especially tight bond--so tight that I've heard of plenty of cops' wives getting jealous, or feeling a little left out of the loop. Okay, it's true that Starsky and I had gotten nonverbal communication down to a science between us, but I'd always chalked that up to time and friendship. Nothing "psychic" about it.

At that moment, though, Starsky proved me wrong. He looked at me, eyes connecting with mine on a level deeper than I can ever remember, and I knew exactly what he was trying to tell me because the words were echoing in my own heart.

I love you, buddy. You've made the bad times bearable, and the good times unforgettable. I'd've been lost without you by my side. Don't ever forget that.

And he knew I knew. The corners of his mouth curved. No one but me would have been able to tell, and even though my chest clenched in pain I smiled back and nodded just enough for him to see.

The orderly's hand on my shoulder broke the spell.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Okay, okay.

I helped them move Starsky to another gurney for transport to the second floor, my eyes darting repeatedly to the clock. Dobey was at the doors, swinging them open so that the orderlies could wheel him through. I watched them head for the elevator, rage returning like the click of a switch.

"Well that's it, huh?"

Dobey's words did nothing to calm the anger simmering in my gut. I paced back and forth, trying to rub the exhaustion from my eyes and keep hold of my temper. 

"No that's not it." I snapped my fingers, a nagging feeling on the edge of my mind that I was forgetting something.

"Look, Hutch, we've only got two hours." I guess Dobey was trying to be helpful, to prepare me for losing Starsky, but I didn't want to hear it.

"I don't care if we've got two minutes! We don't give up!" I struggled against my frustration. "We've missed something, Captain. We've been in such a hurry, we've...we've rushed right past something important."

Dobey's temper was getting a little thin too. "Look, Hutch, we put 200 names in the computer. We get twenty possibles and three primes. It's not our fault if they all wash out."

His attempt to be logical only made me more furious. "They didn't all wash out! Vic Bellamy didn't wash out! He was the..." I stared at him, shock drying up my mouth and cutting off my voice. It was so obvious. How in God's name had I missed it? "Vic Bellamy...only had a tenth grade education. How in the hell did he get the smarts to pull something like this off?"

"You think somebody hired him." It was a statement, not a question.

"Absolutely. Don't you?" Excitement bubbled up to fill the hole in my chest. We were down, damn it, but we weren't out yet.

"Right." Dobey's enthusiasm was forced, but I didn't care. I'd generate enough hope for us both.

"Somebody's gotta tell me who."

Starsky still had almost two hours, and I wasn't going to waste another minute.

~~~~~~~~~~~  
Starsky  
~~~~~~~~~~~

Things got pretty fuzzy for a while. I remember sliding down the wall, the bricks scraping against my jacket, and then everything went black. I felt like I should be scared of the dark, but I wasn't. There was no pain or sadness there; it was kinda peaceful, and a chance to finally rest. The deeper I sank down into it, the harder it was to remember why I'd want to go back.

The voice wouldn't let me go, though. I could hear it, real soft and far away, like when I had my old apartment and could hear my neighbor's television through the wall. I couldn't understand any of the words, but I wanted to. Something about the voice felt soft and warm, like my crummiest pair of sweats or a big hug. It felt like home.

I wanted the comfort of that voice something fierce, but I knew I couldn't have it without the pain. And I really, really didn't want anymore pain. 

I don't know if it was my own choice or not, but the voice got harder and harder to hear. Then it stopped.

And I think maybe I did too.

Next thing I knew, someone was shaking me back and forth till I thought my head would crack open, yellin' in my ear. At first it was just more noise, but then one word broke through the fog and made sense.

BREATHE!

It scared the hell outta me and I sucked in a big gulp of air from pure reflex. My chest lost the tight, squashed feeling I hadn't even noticed until that moment, and the darkness pulled back a little bit. I started coughing so hard I thought my lungs were gonna shoot out of my mouth, but the air tasted so sweet it was almost worth the pain. I still couldn't open my eyes, but the voice, Hutch's voice, was close enough to touch.

"That's it, babe, keep it up. In and out. In and out."

Part of me wanted to laugh at him, to tell him I'd been breathing by myself for nearly thirty years and to quit giving instructions. Another part wanted to beg him to keep talking, to crawl inside his voice and never come out.

Guess breathing must've made me tired, 'cause I faded out again for a while. I dreamed we were back on the roof with Bellamy, only this time I couldn't lift my arm to fire my weapon. Bellamy laughed as he shot Hutch over and over, the same way he'd laughed when he used the needle on me. When he was finally finished, and Hutch was lyin' on the ground in a puddle of blood, he walked back to me and tossed the gun at my feet.

"Present for you, pig. Couldn't have done it without you."

My legs gave out on me and I dropped to my knees by my partner. There was blood everywhere, the ground, Hutch's leather jacket--even his hair was more red than yellow. His eyes were open real wide, like the time I surprised him with a brand new guitar to replace his old one. Only this time they weren't lookin' at me. And they never would.

I hadn't told him. There were things to say, stuff I needed to make sure he knew, and now I'd never get the chance. I tried to reach out and touch him, but I couldn't move my arms. My heart was banging away in my chest and I could hear an ambulance siren even though I'd never had a chance to...

What the hell was over my mouth?

"Hey, partner. 'Bout time you decided to join us."

I cranked my eyelids up enough to catch a blurry glimpse of blond hair and blue eyes. Looking at me.

Alive.

Relief hit me so hard that for a couple seconds I didn't even notice that the pain was back full force. I squinted, focusing enough to not only see Hutch's face, but the dark circles under his eyes. Just moving my arm felt like lifting a 100-pound weight, but I managed to reach up and drag the oxygen mask away from my mouth.

"Ya look terrible."

Jeez, was that really my voice? Sounded like a bullfrog with pneumonia. Hutch grinned at me, though.

"Yeah? Well you should take a look at your own ugly mug, buddy. You wouldn't win any beauty contests yourself." He reached over and put the mask back where it was. "Leave it alone, Starsk. You need it."

I was gonna tell him exactly what to do with that damn uncomfortable mask when we hit a bump that ran my insides through a blender. I bunched the sheet up in my fist and concentrated on not doin' anything embarrassing--like tryin' to puke up nothin' but air. Through the buzzing in my ears I heard Hutch doin' his Dobey imitation.

"Hey, take it easy, would you? We're headed for the hospital, not the demolition derby!"

That's my partner. Really knows how to win friends and influence people.

My guts were still sloshin' around from that pothole when I saw the paramedic pull out a hypo. I stared at it, still half-woozy from the pain, and all I could hear was Bellamy's laugh.

"Hutch, no. Don't...don't let him!"

The warmth of Hutch's hand covered my chest and he leaned in close, blocking out the needle. "It's all right, Starsk, he's just going to give you something for the pain."

That snapped me back to reality, but I still wasn't goin' for it. I remembered how stoned I felt after Cheryl's shot. I knew I didn't have much time left, and even though I was tired of hurting, I couldn't afford to waste a minute. I grabbed for his arm, needing to make him understand.

"Hutch...pain don't matter. Not much time...things to say."

He smiled at me, but I could see how tough it was for him to pull it off. "Game's not over till it's over, Starsk. I know how bad you're hurting. Take the drugs, you don't have anything to tell me that I don't already know."

I knew he was thinking about what Ma told me. Thing is, Ma was only half right. I knew my Pop realized I how much I loved him. Sometimes, though, you just need to hear it out loud. See, I'm pretty sure that's what was missing around Hutch's house, and I'd like to set the record straight.

"Doesn't mean...shouldn't be said."

Warmth spread down my arm and through my body, turning the pain from a Great Dane into one of those yappy little furballs. I tried to stay awake but my eyes had other ideas. Last thing I heard was Hutch sayin' something about a steak dinner.

How can he be hungry at a time like this? 

I was asleep before I could figure it out.

For just a minute when I woke up, I thought I'd dreamed the last twenty hours. I was laying on the same bed, in the same room, with the same beeping in my ear, and the same face lookin' into mine. Made me think of an old movie I watched on the late, late show once, where this mad scientist developed a ray gun that made you stuck in a certain moment of time, living it over and over again.

One look at the clock killed that theory.

"Detective Starsky, do you know where you are?"

Well you don't look much like the Wicked Witch of the West, so I'm guessing it ain't Oz.

Sayin' it would take way too much breath, so I just rolled my eyes. "Hospital."

The doc nodded. "Your partner's waiting outside. I'll let you see him for just a minute, but then we need to take you upstairs. We need to run some tests." He poked at his glasses.

"Sorry...'m late."

Franklin looked confused for a minute until he remembered my promise. Then he just looked uncomfortable. "We'll do everything we can, but there's not much time."

I shook my head. "Don't...blame you. Had...to take...a chance." I tried to smile. "Win some...lose some."

Felt like I was tryin' to suck air through a swizzle stick. The doc motioned to a nurse and she slapped a mask over my face. Something in my chest unscrewed half a turn and I could breathe a little easier. I lay there, ridiculously grateful, and for the first time I really accepted the fact that I was gonna die. I just didn't have anything left to fight it with any more.

The doc came back and gave me another shot, and I didn't even wonder what it was. Only thing I had energy left to care about was on the other side of the double doors.

Maybe thinking about him conjured him up, 'cause Hutch walked into the room a second later. I watched his face while Franklin found a nice way to say I was almost out of time. Hutch nodded his head like he understood, but I could see he wasn't buyin' any of it. Even after everything, with Bellamy on a slab in the morgue, Hutch wasn't givin' up.

That hurt me in places the drugs couldn't touch.

Hutch walked over then, and leaned in close so I could see his face. One hand slipped into mine and the other rested on my shoulder. Connected. I didn't want to lose that, but I knew we'd come to a fork in the road. And this time we were goin' separate ways.

"Hey, buddy. I...I have to go now."

The nurse had taken away the mask so I could talk, but the words wouldn't seem to come. "Okay."

I meant it. I was scared, and splitting from Hutch just made it worse. But I trusted him to know what needed doin'. Problem was, Hutch didn't much look like he trusted himself. He started to pull away, so I gathered up all the breath I could.

"Hey."

A flea woulda sounded louder, but Hutch heard me. "Yeah?"

What do you say to someone who's made your world a better place? Who stuck by you when times couldn't possibly get any worse, and who celebrated with you when they couldn't possibly get any better? Someone you could always count on, even when everything else was falling to pieces. How can you put something into words that only makes sense in your heart?

But this was Hutch. I didn't have to.

He nodded and his fingers tightened. Somebody tapped him on the shoulder and he backed off, grumbling. He helped them move me onto another bed and someone covered me with a sheet. I caught a hazy glimpse of the Captain holding the door as they wheeled me out into the hall, then lost sight of them both.

I'd never felt more alone in my life.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~  
Hutch  
~~~~~~~~~~~

I have no memory of driving to Bellamy's apartment. My eyes were on the road, but my head and my heart were back in the hospital. Starsky's life rested in my hands now, thin and fragile as my grandfather's snow globe. Twenty years ago that treasure had been entrusted to my care and I'd dropped it, unable to save it from smashing to a thousand pieces on a hard oak floor.

I was terrified of making the same mistake.

As I see it, it's who do we trust time.

Starsky had already given me his answer. I knew he was scared of dying alone in a hospital, surrounded by cold tile and strangers. But he'd let me go without protest, trusting me to help him the only way I knew how. Starsky doesn't give his trust easily, but when he does, it's with no holds barred. It warmed me and terrified me all at the same time.

When I got to Bellamy's place I took the stairs two at a time and pounded on the door. Even though in my opinion Vic's wife shared his guilt, Dobey had told me they'd been unable to find sufficient proof to charge her with anything. When she didn't answer right away I banged louder, not caring if I woke the entire building.

"Police! Open up!"

The door cracked open and I gave it a shove, causing her to stumble backwards. I pushed past and looked around the apartment, trying to figure out where Bellamy might've hidden evidence that would lead me to whoever hired him. His wife watched me with red-rimmed eyes, her hands cupping her elbows.

I glared at her. "I need information, and I need it now. Who hired Vic to poison my partner?"

Crocodile tears filled her eyes and she shook her head. "I don't know!"

I didn't have time or patience for her grieving widow act. I was standing near the kitchen, so I stalked inside and began yanking open drawers, looking for anything that might give me an answer. When my search yielded nothing but grocery bills, pens, paperclips, and string, I slammed them shut and started tossing the living room.

Mrs. Bellamy just stood where I'd left her, sobbing and babbling. "I'm sorry! Honest, I'm sorry! For Vic, and you, and me, and your partner."

Somehow I didn't really believe that she ranked herself third on that list. I tried to concentrate on searching but her sniveling set my teeth on edge. I snatched a box of receipts out of a drawer and kicked the door shut on my way past it.

"Stop being sorry!"

"I'm sorry, honest!"

Nothing. Little pieces of paper all over the damn house but none of them had anything to do with Starsky. I moved into the bedroom, ripping open more drawers while I felt like doing things I'd never done to a woman.

"Help me!" I carried a drawer back into the living room, sorting through slips of paper. "Vic wasn't smart enough to do this by himself. He had to have help, who helped him?" 

"I don't know." 

That tearful, helpless little voice wasn't fooling me a bit. The lady was a shark in a housedress, she just needed a push to show her teeth. "Who helped him!"

"I don't know!"

I dumped the drawer and lunged for her, digging my fingers into her arms and giving her a hard shake. "TELL ME!"

"I don't know his name!" The whiny little girl disappeared and I got my first glimpse of those pearly whites.

Now we were getting somewhere. 

I spun her around and flung her down into an armchair, bracing a hand on each side to pin her in place. Starsky and I had taken turns being "bad cop" for years, but this time I wasn't playing a role.

"Tell me!"

She cringed, drawing her knees up to her chin, but her voice was hard as stone. "He hired Vic!"

"Who?"

"He had something to do with the University."

I slowly straightened, a chill scampering up and down my spine.

I did go out to campus. Dad was in a faculty meeting and couldn't come out--wouldn't, I guess.

Oh my God. So simple. The answer had been right there under our noses and we'd charged right past it.

I stared down at Mrs. Bellamy, trying to throw off my shock and stay focused. "Jennings? Professor Jennings?"

Her eyes narrowed, her expression sullen. "I already told you, I don't know his name. He contacted Vic right after he got out of prison. Said he and Vic had something in common--a grudge against two pigs by the names of Starsky and Hutchinson. He told Vic it was payback time, and he knew just how to do it."

It was good, but not good enough. I leaned back into her face. "Why did he pick Vic? How did he know?"

Her lip curled in a snarl like a rabid dog. "What difference does it make? Vic is dead!"

My hand reflexively jerked toward her face but I caught it, stabbing a finger at her instead. "My partner isn't. Now answer the question!"

She flinched and cowered, turning back into a little girl. "I think I heard Vic say he knew the guy's son, okay? That's all I can tell you, I swear!"

I pulled back and headed for the door, sick of the sight of her. Before I left, though, I turned back. She was still sitting where I'd put her, arms hugging her folded legs and eyes hard.

"I may need you to make a statement, so I'd make damn sure I didn't go on any sudden trips if I were you."

I thought about Jerry Jennings all the way out to the University. The moments leading up to his death played across my mind like a movie screen, still technicolor clear in spite of the passage of time. What should have been a routine bust for pushing turned tragic because Jerry, his brain fried on methamphetamines, grabbed for my gun.

He'd died almost instantly, the bullet shattering his ribcage and shredding his heart. Internal Affairs had cleared me of any wrongdoing--even that bastard Simonetti couldn't find fault with my actions. In the police report I'd tried to downplay Jerry's nearly psychotic behavior to spare his father some heartache. Ironically, I'd done it at Starsky's suggestion.

When I reached Professor Jenning's house, Cheryl's car was already in the driveway. I winced, wishing I could spare her the ugly scene I knew was coming. I had no doubts that Cheryl was completely ignorant of her father's actions. She was a good person--intelligent, compassionate, and much more worthy of her father's attentions than her brother had been. I never quite figured out why the old man had such a blind spot when it came to his son.

I rang the bell, then knocked several times, unable to suppress my impatience. Cheryl opened the door, lines creasing her pale brow when she saw me on the front stoop.

"Hutch, what are you doing here?"

"Cheryl, I may need your help. Bear with me." I shouldered by her into the brightly-lit living room, noting that the Professor was fully dressed despite the odd hour. "I want to talk to your father."

Jennings met me halfway, his jaw tight with anger and a pipe clutched in one white-knuckled hand. "Detective Hutchinson! You're not welcome in my home."

I ignored his bluster. "We've gone way past that, Professor."

"Hutch, what are you talking about?" Cheryl's question held a note of bewilderment, and she put a restraining hand on my arm.

"Ask your father, he knows." I looked Jennings in the eye, gauging his reaction. "I just spoke with Vic Bellamy's widow."

"Vic Bellamy?" Cheryl's voice rose a notch, and it hit home again how much her presence was going to complicate matters.

I tore my eyes from the Professor's face to look at her. "That man that your brother was pushing dope for when he was killed." Cheryl's eyes widened, and her hand fell limply to her side.

Her father gestured at me with his pipe and stalked over to a desk. "You don't leave my house peaceably, I'm going to have to call the campus police."

I had a disjointed thought that the desk was a far cry from Starsky's organized chaos. Its surface was impeccably neat and paper free, a phone perched in one corner. I walked over so that we were squared off, the desk between us.

"You'll find them busy, Professor." I stabbed my finger at his chest, my own tight from the effort of keeping a leash on my fury. "They and some detectives are opening up your laboratory."

"But why?" Cheryl leaned in, insinuating herself between us by bracing her hands on the desk.

"They'll be looking for a poisonous compound injected into Starsky." I hesitated a beat, wishing I didn't have to say the rest. "Cheryl...your father is the man that wants to kill him."

"That's insane." Under her protest I heard it--the first small seed of doubt. I hated being the one to put it there. Starsky's pale, pain-riddled face flashed before my eyes and I shoved compassion out of the way.

"Yes, I guess it is," I agreed, locking my eyes onto the Professor's. Putting his actions into words and speaking them out loud made them more concrete. And added fuel to the flame of my own anger. "At least, that's what the defense attorneys will plead. But you see, Cheryl, your father contacted Vic Bellamy a few weeks ago after he got out of prison. The two of them held a grudge against me and Starsky. It was the perfect partnership, wasn't it, Professor?"

Jennings just looked at me, mouth curved with a hint of smugness.

Cheryl's eyes turned to saucers. "Dad, please, tell him it isn't so. Tell him!"

"Yes, Professor. Go on. Tell me."

The hint became a self-satisfied smirk. "Where did I make my mistake?"

I didn't owe him answers; he owed me. But I was willing to talk if it would convince him to save Starsky. "The compound itself. It was far too sophisticated for anyone as simple as Bellamy."

"Dad." Cheryl's broken whisper cut me like a knife, but her father didn't even seem to notice.

For the first time I saw real madness in those crafty eyes. It was difficult to maintain a poker face, to keep from licking my dry lips and evading that fanatical gaze.

"You'll not find anything in the lab." His voice was confident--triumphant, even.

My temper began to slip through my fingers. "Well then, they'll come here. They'll tear this..." Jennings eyes slithered away from mine to quickly pan the room, a dead giveaway that I'd hit a nerve. "It is here, isn't it? Of course it is, there's enough stuff for both Starsky and me."

Cheryl was nearly frantic, eyes wild and head shaking in denial. "Dad. Dad, please, what is this all..." She reached out to place a hand on her father's arm.

"NO, SHUT UP! Can't you ever keep your mouth SHUT!" The Professor knocked her arm away so that she staggered backward, one hand clamped over her mouth. From the callous way he treated her, she could have been a stranger.

Maybe she was.

I looked over my shoulder at the clock. 2:49. One more hour and it wouldn't make a difference whether Jennings came clean or not.

"Yeah." He sneered at me, face twisted. "You have it all figured out."

I nodded, deliberately countering with composure. "Yes."

"But why?" Cheryl pleaded.

The professor thrust out his jaw, eyes hard as steel. "Because they killed my son. They killed Jerry." The words dripped bitterness and venom.

I had to look away for a moment to keep my cool. This was why my partner lay in a hospital bed, dying? "Professor, you don't think for... You don't think we wanted to kill him, do you?"

A harsh jerk of his head affirmed my words. "I read your story in the police report."

"Dad, Hutch tried to protect you in that report! Jerry was an addict, stoned out of his mind constantly." Cheryl's response was a wail, betrayal and disappointment mingled with dismay.

"That's a lie," her father snapped.

"Sir, his mind had already been taken over. His brain was soup."

"No." Jennings was crumbling. He walked over to the desk chair and folded into it, bowed head shaking slowly back and forth. I kept after him, pressing my advantage.

"We tried to calm him down, we tried to bring him back to the house--it's in the report. He grabbed my gun; it went off accidentally. It's not his fault, he was spaced out!"

"STOP!" The Professor slammed his fist onto the blotter.

"Professor, I'm asking you. I'm *begging* you, PLEASE! Stop this before it's too late!" I'd passed the point of reasoning, reduced to begging a crazy old man for my partner's life.

"My boy is dead. He was a good boy."

My eyes skipped to the clock. It was a compulsion, like picking a scab. 2:50.

Jennings continued to babble, more to himself than to Cheryl or me. "He's dead!"

I bit my lip hard, hanging onto my temper by my fingernails. I tried to keep my voice calm and low. "I'm asking you to save my partner's life."

I could feel Cheryl over my shoulder, holding her breath. Her father stared at me, hesitating, then slowly pulled open the drawer in front of him and reached inside. When his hand emerged it was clutching an uncapped syringe, pointed at me. I'd seen that look on the faces of countless street punks. Cornered. Desperate.

Dangerous.

"Professor, give it to me." I stretched out my hand, hoping like hell he wasn't going to turn it into shish-kabob.

He cringed but didn't lower the needle.

"Give it to me."

The forceful approach obviously wasn't working. Jennings had recoiled from me as far as possible, the hand holding the syringe quivering. I softened my tone and raised my voice, working hard to appear non-threatening.

"Give it to me."

"Dad, PLEASE!"

At the sound of his daughter's plea, the Professor dropped his eyes and I snatched the hypo from his unresisting fingers. Victory and relief, pure and undistilled, hit me with a sweet rush like I hadn't felt since... 

I ran for the door, leaving Cheryl to deal with the broken shell of her father.

Hang on just a little longer, Starsk. I'm coming, and I'm going to be pissed off if you don't wait.

~~~~~~~~~~~  
Starsky  
~~~~~~~~~~~

White tile. Machines. Nurses. And lots of needles.

I was in a gray place--not awake, not asleep, hanging in between. Somewhere there was still pain, bad pain, but it was too far away for me to care. My whole world narrowed down to just two things: breathing and waiting for Hutch to come back.

Both were getting' harder and harder to do.

I dreamed--daydreams, I guess, since I wasn't exactly sleeping. Sometimes they were about stuff that really happened. Standin' in the street, lookin' down at the body of Lonnie Craig, a bright red puddle soaking into the cement. Lying on a lumpy couch in an Italian restaurant, fighting to keep my eyes open so I could toss a metal pitcher at the wall. Climbing up a radio tower after Commander Jim, the wires biting into the palms of my hands, afraid to look down and see just how far off the ground we'd gotten.

Sometimes they were straight outta my fertile imagination. Chasing a suspect through dark alleys and vacant lots for hours, never gettin' any closer. Showing up in court to testify against a punk and developing a weird case of laryngitis so I couldn't talk. Goin' home to visit Ma and finding out she'd been dead and buried for years only somehow I didn't know it.

Crazy dreams that didn't always make much sense but had me waking up with the sheets balled up in my fists. They only had one thing in common, one piece that fit.

Hutch was there.

Not havin' him at my side while the doc and nurses were turning me into the incredible human guinea pig made it tough to find my way back from the gray place. I knew he was out there somewhere, lookin' for a miracle, but it was tough to think past white coats, beeping machines, and endless tests.

And I was so tired.

Once I think they let Captain Dobey in to see me for a few minutes. I got a hazy memory of brown skin and worried, dark eyes. Big, gentle hands and a gruff, no nonsense voice. Telling me to keep fighting. That it was an order, and if I knew what was good for me, I'd listen up.

I tried to talk, to ask him how Hutch was doin' and when he'd be back, but my tongue felt thick and clumsy and I couldn't seem to gulp down enough air to use it. 'Fore I realized what was happening, the mask was back over my nose and Dobey was gone. 

People were rushin' around me, fiddling with machines and the tubes and wires that connected me to 'em. All I could hear was the thumpin' of my heart and the wheezing that air made as I tried to pull it into my lungs. My body felt like it didn't belong to me, my arms and legs 500-pound weights and my head stuffed with cotton.

I was tired.

Tired of the pain, constantly gnawing my gut even when the drugs blunted its teeth. Tired of bein' poked and prodded--mask on my face, lights in my eyes, needles in my arms and wires on my chest. Tired of bein' surrounded by people but still feelin' alone.

Tired of fighting for a miracle that wasn't gonna happen.

I'm sorry, Hutch. I can't...

I expected darkness, the black velvet that had wrapped itself around me on the rooftop at Bellamy's place. Instead I was standing in light, bright and golden, blinding me like sun on water. I tipped my chin up, lettin' it warm my face as the hospital sounds faded slowly away to peaceful silence.

This is heaven? No offense, but it's highly overrated. 'Course, things could be worse. Least I'm not stoking the furnace with Bellamy and Wedell...

Laughter--a deep warm chuckle that echoed in the quiet. I recognized that sound even though I hadn't heard it for many years. My heart lurched sideways into my ribs and the hair on the back of my neck stood up.

"P...Pop?" It came out in a whisper, shaking as bad as my hands.

Fingers in my hair, rufflin' up the curls and then givin' 'em a tug. Only one person touched me that way, rough and gentle at the same time. I sucked in a sharp breath of air and found it laced with a familiar mixture of leather, gun oil, and cologne. I slowly turned around and found myself staring into blue eyes I'm told match my own.

He looked just the same, unchanged from that last night when I watched him walk out the door, slipping his gun into his holster and whistling under his breath. He grinned at me, laugh lines around his mouth and a dimple in one cheek. Just the same.

"Whatsa matter, Curly? Now that you're a hotshot detective you can't give your pop hug?"

I launched myself at him and was wrapped in a bear hug that I'd waited twenty long years for. My eyes burned, my throat closed up... And I felt terrific. Bellamy, the poison--none of it mattered. For some reason I had a second chance, and I didn't want to blow it.

Pop stepped back and held me at arm's length, lookin' me over from head to toe. The corners of his mouth curled up and he cocked an eyebrow.

"Look at you, grown into a man. You were such a handful, there was times I thought you'd never make it that far. I been keeping tabs on you, you know. Couple of times I wanted to reach down and give you a smack just to knock some sense into you, but you straightened out."

His words woke me up, reminded me that something funny was goin' on. I was standing in the middle of nowhere, still wearing a hospital gown and talkin' to a man who'd been dead twenty years. You can't get much stranger than that.

"Pop, how...where..."

He chuckled again and shook his head. "It's not what you think, David. You aren't in heaven, and there sure ain't nobody by the name of Bellamy or Wedell here either."

I stared, thinking how strange it felt to be lookin' eye to eye, not cranking my neck back to see his face. "I don't understand."

His expression got serious. "You're not dead yet, son. Least not all the way."

"All the way? What the heck is that supposed to mean? How can you be part dead?"

He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, something I remembered him doin' when he was tryin' to figure out what to say. "It's hard to explain. There's a place between Life and Death where the line is blurred--an in-between place."

I tilted my head at the emptiness around us. "This?"

Pop nodded. "That's why you can see me, and why I had to talk to you. Death is real close, David. You feel that, don't you?"

I swallowed hard, all the spit drying up in my mouth. "Yeah. I guess I do. Did you come to take me with you? Is that why you're here?"

Pop's smile looked a little sad, but he slung an arm around my shoulders. "No, Curly. I'm here to send you back."

That threw me. I looked around, soaking up the stillness and the peace. My father's smile and the warmth of his arm across my back. And I remembered pain. Fear. Loneliness.

"Pop, what if I don't..." My voice wobbled and broke. "Don't you want me to stay with you?"

He dropped his arm, turning so that he faced me again. "David, there's nothing I'd like better than that. Don't ever think I'm not counting the days until we can be together again. But this isn't the time."

I dropped my eyes to try and hide the tears, but he must've seen 'em anyway. "I know you're scared, Curly. I know you're tired and hurting. But there's other people back there that still need you. Right now you belong with them."

"Hutch!" I was amazed and a little ashamed that I hadn't thought about my partner even once since finding myself in that crazy place.

Pop nodded and one corner of his mouth turned up. "You two get into enough trouble together. Hate to think what might happen if you left him on his own." The smile flattened out and he looked at me with the stern, "I'm the father" expression I remembered from countless reprimands when I was a kid. "He's bustin' his tail to save you, David. You can't give up."

He was right. As soon as I accepted it, I felt the tug of the hospital room drawing me back and the light around me wavered and dimmed. Suddenly I remembered some unfinished business.

"Wait! One more minute! Pop, there's something you gotta know, something I never had the chance to say."

He shook his head, rollin' his eyes a little. "David, ain't you been listening? There's nothing you've got to tell me that I don't already know."

"Okay, okay, I get that. Just bear with me and let me say it anyway, all right?"

He chuffed a little laugh. "All right, Curly. I'm all ears."

I took a deep breath and blew it out through my nose. "I love you, Pop. You were a good dad--the best. All I ever wanted was to be like you, to make you proud of me. I just wanted you to know that I..."

He cut me off by reaching out to touch my face, his palm resting on my cheek and his fingers threaded through my hair. "David. Son..." He paused, and I was stunned to see him blinking back tears. I'd never, ever seen my pop cry. When he went on, his voice was soft, but steady. "You're the man I always hoped you'd be. I couldn't be more proud."

The pull got stronger and he dropped his hand. Suddenly his body looked thin, almost transparent and his voice sounded far away. "Take care of your mother, David, she needs you too. And give her and Nicky my love..."

The light flickered and died, snuffed out by the blackness I'd been expecting all along.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~  
Hutch  
~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a good thing Starsky couldn't see me after I left Professor Jenning's house. I drove like a bat out of hell, taking full advantage of the empty streets and the Torino's powerful engine. Pressing the gas pedal to the floor on the open highway. Screeching around corners on two wheels when I hit the city. And doing it all one-handed while I tried to track down Dobey and Dr. Franklin.

Starsky would've been seriously pissed.

Turned out Dobey was at Memorial, so I had the dispatcher relay a message, asking him to notify Franklin I was coming in with a sample of the poison so that he could have his lab techs ready. The clock on the dashboard read 3:11 when I pulled up to the emergency room entrance, and my hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped the syringe. I slammed the gearshift into park and left the engine running, not even bothering to close the door.

A nurse was waiting. She took one look at me, carefully pried the hypo from my fingers, and sprinted down the hallway. Looking back, I'm not sure whether the rush was to save Starsky or to put as much distance as possible between herself and the wild-eyed blond man packing a gun.

That would be me.

Before I could try to follow, Dobey was at my side, taking me by the elbow and steering me over to a row of those damn plastic chairs. I was so strung out from stress and worry that he had me halfway toward parking my butt in one before I realized what I was doing. I shook off his hand and tried to walk away.

"How's Starsky? I have to talk to Franklin!"

Dobey stepped in front of me, a solid wall of captain. "Hold on..."

I dodged, furious at being kept from my goal. "Get out of my way, Captain, it's been a long day and the last thing I need is..."

"HUTCHINSON! SIT DOWN!"

Dobey's roar could've awakened patients on the second floor. For all I know, maybe it did. Not being a fool, I shut my mouth and sat. We glared at each other for a minute while he worked one large finger into the knot of his tie and loosened it, then claimed the chair next to mine.

"I just talked to the doctor." His voice did a 180-degree turn, gentleness replacing force. "They've got Starsky in a treatment room, prepping him for the antidote. He promised to come get us as soon as there's any news."

Something in his eyes made my mouth go dry and my heart stutter. "Did you see him? How is he?"

Dobey bit his lip and his eyes slid away from mine. "Hutch, I think you should be prepared for the possibility that..."

I cut him off with an upraised hand. "How. Is. He?"

"He went into respiratory failure and they had to put him on a machine to help him breathe. The doctor says he's putting up a helluva fight, but he's very weak."

All I could do was nod to show I understood. The giddy rush of adrenaline from my confrontation with the Professor was depleted, and exhaustion and depression seemed to be all I had left. I couldn't even summon the energy to feel angry about the way I'd been cheated out of my storybook ending.

Too bad this ain't a T.V. show, huh, Hutch?

You got that right, Starsk.

I dropped my head back against the wall with a thud and closed my eyes. It was out of my hands now. Funny, but the thought didn't give me a feeling of relief, only despair.

I sat in that lousy chair and waited for the entire course of my life to be decided by one curly-haired cop with a passion for bad horror movies. There were no distractions now, no leads to run down, no bad guys to bust. Nothing to do but contemplate my life without him in it. I grit my teeth and tried to picture it, even though it felt like pouring salt into an open wound. Tried to imagine someone else filling the holes Starsky would leave in my life. Cruising the streets and watching my back. Taunting me about my car and competing with me for a pretty lady. Playing practical jokes on Dobey and shooting pool with Huggy.

I tried, but I couldn't do it. Those holes in my life were all Starsky-shaped--nothing, and nobody could fill them the way he did. 

I'm not sure how much time passed. Long enough for Dobey to quit nagging me about eating something and to bring me two cups of the worst coffee I'd ever tasted. My head ached, my eyeballs felt like ground glass, and I was jittery from far too much caffeine and far too little sleep. When Franklin rounded the corner I popped up on my feet before Dobey could blink.

"How is he?"

Franklin tilted his head in the direction from which he'd come. "Why don't you see for yourself?"

I swallowed hard and glanced at the Captain, who raised an eyebrow and gestured for me to go ahead. The doctor led me down a corridor, through a set of double doors, and into a room nearly identical to the one my partner had occupied earlier. Starsky, more beeping machinery, and another nurse. I blinked and scrubbed at my eyes, the feeling of déjà vu so strong that for a moment I felt dizzy.

Full circle and here we were again, but this time I could sense a difference. In the peaceful set of Starsky's sleeping face. In the quiet, relaxed movements of the nurse. And most of all, in the suggestion of a curve to Franklin's lips. He walked over to consult with the nurse, returning with a medical chart in his hands and smile lines around his eyes.

"We started adding the antidote to his I.V. an hour ago and he's already breathing on his own." He looked down at the chart. "Two cc's hydrochloride, 1 cc bromoacetone, 4 cc's benzylcyanide, 1 cc diphenylamide." He flipped the chart shut and smiled for the first time since the whole nightmare began. "Yes, I think your friend's going to make it."

The invisible fist released my chest, flooding me with the relief of a death row inmate handed a stay of execution. I touched his shoulder.

"Thank you, Doctor."

The words hung in the air, pitifully weak and inadequate, but Franklin nodded and moved off to talk with the nurse. I looked down at Starsky, his face pale and drawn, eyes shadowed, but giving off an unmistakable aura of peace.

Alive.

My eyes slipped shut and I offered up a semi-coherent prayer to a God I'm not even sure I believe in anymore.

Thanks. I owe you one.

I had the strangest sensation that I heard a low chuckle in reply.

Doctor Franklin finished giving instructions to the nurse, who promptly began disconnecting Starsky from several machines. "We're going to move him upstairs now, to the ICU. We'll continue to keep a close eye on him there until we're sure he's stabilized. If all goes well, he'll be in a regular room by tonight."

I nodded, unable to pull my eyes from my partner's face. "When can he go home?"

Franklin chuckled and shook his head. "I think we'll have to take things a step at a time. I can't say I've ever dealt with a patient quite like Detective Starsky."

I grinned. "He is unique."

The nurse stepped back and an orderly took her place, releasing the brake that immobilized the gurney. Franklin held open the door so that Starsky could be wheeled into the hallway.

"Give us a few minutes to get him settled. After that you can sit with him for a while if you'd like." He started to follow the gurney, but paused and looked back at me with an inscrutable expression. "If you'd asked two hours ago, I'd have said your partner didn't have a chance of making it. I've never seen anyone fight harder to hold onto life. It's almost as if he knew you were coming."

Franklin didn't wait for an answer, which was a good thing since my heart had suddenly crawled up into my throat, making speech impossible. I stood alone in the treatment room, taking slow, deep breaths for a long time before I was ready to find Dobey and give him the good news.

An hour later I was sitting in a chair almost identical to the one in the ER, with a notable exception--it was beside Starsky's bed in the ICU. I'm not sure what Franklin had told the nursing staff, but a friendly nurse named Margaret, who couldn't have been a day under 60, had settled me in with a pillow and reassurances that I was exempt from the normal visiting restrictions and could stay as long as I liked.

I watched my partner sleep, fully intending to remain alert myself. Dr. Franklin had warned me that Starsky was heavily medicated for pain and not likely to regain consciousness for some time, but after the grueling ordeal of the last 26 hours I found it hard to let down and relax. It had been close--too close. Part of me wanted to savor the moment of respite as Starsky began the upward swing toward healing. Part of me was still expecting the other shoe to drop.

I was awakened by the twitch of long fingers beneath my own, not even realizing I'd drifted off. My neck felt like a bent coathanger and my mouth tasted of stale coffee and tears. I blinked and sat up straight, running a hand down my face. Starsky's fingers curled around mine and his eyelids fluttered. Margaret bustled in a moment later.

"He's waking up!" I announced, probably sounding like Starsky had just won the Nobel Peace Prize or set an Olympic record.

She smiled and checked first his pulse and then the I.V. "I noticed. I saw the jump in his vital signs on the monitor at the nurses' station." For the first time I heard the hint of a brogue in her voice and noticed auburn mingled in her predominantly gray hair. She leaned over, modifying her voice so that it was low and soothing. "David, can you wake up for me? There's someone here who's anxious to talk with you."

Starsky's eyes opened a crack, slipped shut, and then slowly lifted to half-mast. Even from a distance I could see they looked glazed and unfocused. Margaret's warm smile blossomed, and it suddenly struck me that she must've been a knockout in her younger days.

"Hello, David. Welcome back."

Starsky slowly blinked and mumbled a word I couldn't understand in a raspy, creaky voice.

"I'll be taking care of you, sweetheart. My name is Margaret, but you can call me Maggie. You're still pretty sick, but you're doing much better."

I watched her as she spoke to him, the way she kept her movements gentle and slow so as not to cause him pain or startle him. I recalled Starsky's earlier complaint about nurses, and was grateful that this time, at least, he'd gotten a bona fide angel. Starsky lay passively while Maggie finished recording his blood pressure, still more asleep than awake despite the raised eyelids.

"I've got a surprise for you, David," she said. "Look who's here."

She stepped aside so that I could stop hovering over her shoulder and move into Starsky's line of vision. At first he just squinted blankly, and I had a brief moment of panic, wondering if the poison's devastating effects on his body had included brain damage. Fortunately, my alarm was short lived. His eyes locked onto mine and sharpened, losing a little of their vagueness. A crinkling of the skin around them, and the barest curve to his lips, seemed to be the closest thing to a smile he could manage.

"Hutch." Little more than a puff of air, paper thin and fragile.

"Hey, buddy." My throat closed up before I could say more, so I just stood there and grinned at him like an idiot.

"Took you...so long?"

I slid one hip carefully onto the bed and rested my hand lightly on his chest, relishing its steady, effortless rise and fall. "Stopped for a pizza."

He chuffed out a weak little laugh, winced, and reached a shaky hand to his throat. "Hurts."

Maggie, who'd been quietly observing us, slipped a plastic cup of crushed ice and a spoon into my hand. "His throat is sore from the tube. Go easy on the ice, his stomach won't be able to tolerate much yet." She patted my shoulder. "He's doing fine, so I'll leave you two alone. Don't let him talk too much, and don't worry if he doesn't make sense. He's apt to be pretty fuzzy from the drugs."

I'm usually more reserved than my exuberant partner, but I guess the euphoria from knowing Starsky was going to be all right got to me. I grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze. "Thanks, Maggie. You're beautiful."

She flashed me the impish grin of a young girl. "Aye, that's what all the handsome young men tell me. I'll be right outside if you need me. Just buzz."

I turned to find two solemn blue eyes watching me with a foggy, bemused intensity. I rooted around in the cup for a small spoonful of ice and held it to Starsky's lips.

"Here, Starsk. It'll help your throat."

He let me feed him five or six spoonfuls of the ice, mouth opening as obediently as baby bird's, eyes slipping shut in bliss as it melted and ran down his abused throat. The silence between us was easy, comfortable, and I felt the tightly coiled spring inside of me slowly begin to unwind. Something about being able to perform that one small kindness for my partner healed me in places I hadn't realized were injured.

By the time he consumed the seventh spoonful, Starsky's eyelids were beginning to droop, so I set aside the cup.

"Tired." More of a sigh than a spoken word.

I tucked the blanket under his chin. "You've got a right to be. Had a busy day."

One corner of his mouth turned up in a lopsided little smirk. It quickly faded, however, and a line appeared between his brows. "Poison?"

I knew what he was asking and I didn't want to open up that can of worms. Not with him just this side of Death's door. I patted his chest. "I'll tell you the whole story later. Point is, we caught the bad guy and you're going to be okay."

He peered up at me from under those lashes. "You."

"Huh?"

A deep breath, and the words were a little more slurred. "You...got the bad guy. Didn't do...nothin'."

I shook my head, eyes stinging, and tucked a stubborn curl back from his eyes. "You did the hardest job of all, babe. You held on."

His eyes slid shut and he smiled. "Nah...was easy. Pop tol' me...you were comin'."

I stared at him, dumbfounded, while he slipped into a deep sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~  
Starsky  
~~~~~~~~~~~

The next time the light came, I was almost afraid to open my eyes. Would I be back in the "in-between place" with Pop? Standing in front of the pearly gates, tryin' to fast talk my way inside? I kept real still and took inventory.

I was layin' down, not standing, the softness of a pillow under my head. Soft, steady beeps came from somewhere over my left shoulder. But the dead giveaway was the sour smell, like Bactine and old piss. 

Man, if heaven smelled like that I might just volunteer to go stoke the furnace.

It was about then that I felt something warm and heavy covering my left hand. I wriggled my fingers a little and struggled to pry open my eyelids. A voice spoke in my ear, soft and musical. I couldn't understand what it was saying, but it made me curious enough to work harder at opening my eyes. After a couple of tries I managed to keep 'em propped halfway, though it didn't do me much good. All I could see was a confusing jumble of shapes and colors, like puzzle pieces spilled out of the box and not put together. The pain in my chest was gone, but it had played a dirty trick and migrated to my throat, which felt like raw hamburger.

"Hello, David. Welcome back."

The pieces started to fit together, and I could make out a smiling face under a white cap. I tried to ask who she was, what was goin' on, but the words came out as mixed up as the colors had been. She just smiled and kept talkin' to me. I knew the drill by now, and I braced myself, expecting the orders, the poking and jabbing, pushing and pulling. 

They never came. Her voice stayed quiet and sweet, and her hands were slow and gentle. She told me I could call her Maggie, and that she was gonna take care of me. For just a minute, I started thinking maybe I'd made a mistake, maybe I was in heaven after all. Maggie sure seemed like my own personal angel.

"David, I've got a surprise for you. Look who's here."

My angel's face was gone and another took its place, too fast for me to track.

Damn. Stoned again.

I squinted hard at the blue and yellow blobs in front of me, and after a minute they shifted into place. It was like comin' home after a long trip.

"Hutch."

Sounded like the voice of a ninety-year-old man, but Hutch's face lit up like a candle. "Hey, buddy."

Lifting one corner of my mouth was easier than two, so I settled for a crooked smile. "Took you...so long?"

Hutch was right there with me, didn't miss a beat. "Stopped for a pizza."

I wasn't expecting the laugh that ambushed me. Small as it was, just a little puff of air, really, it still set fire to my throat. I couldn't help grabbing at it.

"Hurts."

Maggie said something to Hutch and handed him a little plastic cup and spoon. Even though I could hear the words, I couldn't keep up with 'em. Felt like everyone else was playing at 78 rpm, and I was stuck on 33. As I watched, Hutch grabbed her hand to give it squeeze, then blushed at her reply. 'F I didn't know better, I'd've sworn Hutch was flirtin' with my angel.

Nah.

Maggie left and Hutch dug around in the cup with the spoon. He held it up to my mouth and I could feel coldness against my lips.

"Here, Starsk. It'll help your throat."

I wasn't too keen on the idea of swallowing anything, but I opened up anyway. Little hunks of something wet and freezing cold slipped onto my tongue. Ice chips. I let 'em melt and trickle down my throat, almost purring 'cause it felt so good. When Hutch held out the spoon again I was only too happy to take some more.

For a while, that's how it went--Hutch scooping up more ice chips and spoonin' 'em into my mouth; me layin' there and lettin' him do it. Normally I'd never of put up with bein' fed like a baby; it pisses me off when Hutch gets overprotective and acts like my mother.  
But after the last 24 hours from hell, nothing was normal. I was so tapped out just lifting my arm felt like running a marathon. And Hutch? In spite of the big, goofy grin on his face, he looked like a rubberband stretched tight enough to snap.

We both needed that time--no thinking, no talking, just soaking up some peace and quiet. It gave me a chance to find my way back. To shake off the last little bits of that in-between place and pick up my life. It gave Hutch the chance to stop and let the good news sink in. To see that he'd passed the finish line a couple miles back and it was time to quit running. 

I must've started to fall asleep, 'cause suddenly the spoon was gone and gentle hands were tugging at the sheets.

"Tired."

"You've got a right to be. Had a busy day." Hutch's voice was just as warm and comfortable as the blanket he tucked under my chin. The sharp edge was gone; he sounded like himself for the first time since Bellamy poisoned me.

Poison. Bellamy. How in the hell did he come up with an antidote when our buddy Vic was imitating a Popsicle in the morgue? I pushed aside the sleepiness and concentrated on making my tongue work.

"Poison?"

Okay, it wasn't brilliant, but it was short and to the point. I knew Hutch would get what I was asking.

Blondie thinks he's clever, but I can read him like a book. His face tightened up for a minute, and I knew he was deciding how much to tell me. Actin' like my mother again, but I was too tired to care.

He patted my chest. "I'll tell you the whole story later. Point is, we caught the bad guy and you're going to be okay."

We. Yeah, right. More I thought about it, the guiltier I felt. I'd risked Hutch's life by making him drag me along during the investigation. If Bellamy'd shot him back on that roof, I'd've never forgiven myself.

'Course, I wouldn't've had too long to be wallowing in blame. 

"You." I was gettin' good at one word sentences. Unfortunately, Hutch wasn't following me.

"Huh?"

I sucked in a breath of air and tried again. It was like talking around a wad of peanut butter. "You...got the bad guy. Didn't do...nothin'."

He blinked hard and shook his head. Loopy as I was, I could still see he was just a step away from tears. He reached over and brushed a lock of hair outta my eyes that I hadn't even realized was buggin' me. "You did the hardest job of all, babe. You held on."

*Ah, Hutch. You'll never know how close I came to lettin' go.*

I thought about Pop. How he was still just like I'd remembered him. How he'd seemed content and happy. How even though I couldn't see him, he was with me. And even though we couldn't be together, I'd made him proud.

Best of all, I'd gotten to tell him something I'd been holding inside me for twenty long years. 

I smiled, and gave up on holding my eyes open. "Nah...was easy. Pop tol' me...you were comin'."

I let myself slide toward sleep, knowing two of the people I loved best were watching over me.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~  
Starsky  
~~~~~~~~~~~

Three days later the doc finally let Hutch spring me from the hospital. Huh. Might as well say spring me from the slammer, there wasn't a big difference. I was so fed up by then I'd've done just about anything to get out. The food was worse than Hutch's health glop and they wouldn't let him smuggle me a burger. The television stuck on one channel that showed nothing but nature documentaries. The damn white dress they made me wear kept bunchin' up around my waist when I tried to sleep and flapped open in back when I went to take a leak. And everywhere I turned people were tellin' me what I could and couldn't do--even my partner.

Problem was, even though I was mentally ready to take on the world, physically I still needed a lot of help. Just doin' a simple little thing like gettin' myself dressed wore me out so much I had to sit back down on the bed. I kept tellin' myself I should be grateful just to be breathing--and I was--but it didn't stop the frustration or brighten my lousy mood.

"Hey there! All ready to be leaving us, I see."

Maggie stood in the doorway, arms folded, a big smile on her face. The only bad part about gettin' out of the ICU to a regular room was losing her as my nurse. She'd drop by several times a day, though, to check up on me. Once she even brought me a frozen juice bar from Pediatrics. Said if little kids having their tonsils out deserved 'em, I did too.

"Hutch is comin' to get me." I waved her inside and she perched on the bed next to me. "Can't wait to blow this joint." I grinned at her. "No offense intended."

She chuckled. "None taken. It's the way of it, you know, part of the healing. A few months from now and you'll have put us all right out of your mind."

I nudged her with my shoulder and winked. "Nah, not all of ya. Couldn't forget my Irish Rose." During one of her visits Maggie had told me about growing up in a small town near Dublin, where her sister still lived.

The chuckle turned into a full-blown laugh and she patted my knee. "Now, David. You'd best be saving that charm for the young girls, don't you think?"

"Careful, Maggie. Don't encourage him." Hutch leaned against the doorjamb, smiling at us.

I lowered my voice. "Don't listen to him, Maggie. He's always tryin' to steal a pretty lady from me."

Hutch snorted and walked into the room. "Trying?"

Maggie shook her head and stood up, pursing her lips to try and hide a smile. "I'd say you both are nothing but trouble and I'm well rid of you." She looked at Hutch. "Take care of him, Kenneth. Just don't forget to take care of yourself while you're at it." When she turned back to me she frowned and shook her finger, but I could see she was teasing. "And you! Don't be undoing our hard work with your own stubbornness. I don't want to see you back here because you didn't know when to ask for help."

I stood up and gave her a peck on the cheek. "Thanks, Maggie. You're one in a million."

She smiled at me and then Hutch as he took her hand. "Aye, so I've been told."

Once she disappeared out the door, Hutch cocked an eyebrow at me. "Well, partner, you ready to rejoin the rest of the world?"

I rolled my eyes. "You got no idea. Let's go before they change their minds."

Hutch turned toward the door, but when I started to follow he held up a hand. "Hang on, I'll be right back."

I wasn't sure what he was up to, but my legs were already starting to feel a little wobbly, so I propped myself against the bed and tried to be patient. I didn't have to wait long. He was back a second later, wearing a big grin and pushing a wheelchair.

"Your chariot awaits."

I glared at him and folded my arms. "I am not ridin' in that. I happen to have two legs and there ain't a damn thing wrong with either one."

Hutch straightened up and put his hands on his hips. "Starsky, this isn't my idea and you don't have a choice. Hospital policy says you go out in one of these or you don't go out at all." His voice stayed real calm and reasonable, like a parent talking to a toddler throwin' a tantrum. 'Course that just made me madder.

"Well it's a stupid policy, I ain't some kind of invalid!" 

In the back of my mind I knew I was bein' unreasonable, but I couldn't seem to stop myself. Ever since the poisoning I'd lost control of my life. My body's betrayal not only kept me from taking care of myself, it left me useless to Hutch, too. To him, gettin' in that wheelchair might be no big deal, but to me it was the straw that broke the camel's back. And the camel was pissed.

"It's only as far as the front door. After that you can kiss it good-bye. C'mon, get in the chair." Still patient, no sign of temper even though I was bein' an ass. Just another reminder things weren't the way they were supposed to be.

I pushed myself away from the stability of the bed and started for the door, givin' the wheelchair and Hutch a wide berth. "Forget it. I'm outta here. You ride in that thing if you're so fond of it."

Hutch snagged me by the arm and for the first time I saw a spark of anger in his eyes. "Stop being a baby! The hospital..."

Wrong choice of words. In fact, he couldn't've picked worse if he'd been trying. I jerked my arm out of his grasp, too furious to recognize what a stupid move it was. "Screw the hospital, and screw you! I'll take a cab home."

I had about three seconds to watch hurt flicker across Hutch's face before the dizziness slammed into me, my feet tangled together, and my legs folded up.

And just like always, Hutch was there.

He lunged for me, catching me under the arms and hauling me back upright. "Damn it, Starsky, what the hell is wrong with you? You want to check back in with a concussion?"

It was the first honest anger he'd shown me in three days and I was too far gone to appreciate it. My fingers were knotted in his jacket, my forehead was pressed against his shoulder, and I was desperately trying not to prove him right by bawlin'.

Hutch must've sensed what was goin' on, because his tone shifted from mad to bewildered. "Starsk?"

I couldn't look at him. "I just want my life back, Hutch. To eat what I want, when I want. To be able to do a simple thing like put on clothes without needin' to stop and rest. If I can't sleep, I want to stay up late and watch a movie, not take a pill. To be alone for longer than fifteen minutes without someone checkin' on me. I want..."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hang on." 

Hutch shifted so that I could sit down on the bed, then joined me. His expression was so gentle and sympathetic I had to look out the window.

"Starsky, three days ago you almost died. Ask any doctor or nurse in this hospital and they'll say you're a walking miracle. Cut yourself, and the rest of us, a little slack."

I watched an airplane fade in and out of some fluffy white clouds. "'S not my miracle, Hutch. You conjured it up all on your own."

I felt him go still, and I could almost hear the gears turning. "What's really bugging you, Starsk? Level with me."

Not much. I just keep havin' this recurring nightmare where Bellamy blows you away 'cause I can't lift my gun.

I shrugged and shook my head. "Nothin'. C'mon, let's go. I'll get in the damn chair."

Hutch's arm across my chest stopped me. "Try again."

Great. Now he was gonna tell me when I had to talk? I shoved his arm out of the way but it was back before I could move. I was in no shape to fight him, and we both knew it. 

"Talk to me." Quiet. Patient.

God, I was gonna go out of my mind if he didn't stop treating me with kid gloves! 

"See? That's just what I'm talkin' about! You don't even get mad at me when I deserve it; you take my shit and never call me on it! I'm not made of glass, Hutch. When I screw up I expect you to tell me, same as always."

Hutch stared at me through my outburst, a little line between his eyebrows that got deeper the more I yelled. When I finally ran outta steam he gave a little shake of his head.

"Okaaaay. How about you let me in on just when you're supposed to have screwed up."

I didn't want to talk about it, especially not there, but I'd just painted myself into a corner. I grit my teeth and looked him straight in the eye.

"How 'bout when I almost got you killed?"

His jaw dropped. "What?"

The fact that he had absolutely no idea what I was talking about just made me madder. "Hutch, Bellamy was three seconds away from wasting you right in front of me! I never should've been out on the streets with you; I was in no shape for it. My inability to back you up almost got you killed!"

Hutch gaped at me for a minute longer, then slid off the bed. He paced to the end of the room and then returned to stand in front of me, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Have you really been stewing over this for three days?" When I didn't answer he pulled his hand down his face and shook his head. "Starsk, you gave me all the back up I needed. You saved my life!"

I couldn't stand to hear him put it that way. "It was a lucky shot! I could barely see, I could just as easily..."

"It was what we do!" Hutch's razor sharp reply cut me off. He made a soft noise somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "We put ourselves on the line for each other. That's why we're so good at the job. Starsk, when I needed you, you were there. Just like I knew you'd be."

His words filled a hole, a souvenir from Bellamy that Dr. Franklin couldn't heal. I couldn't give up quite so easily, though.

"Yeah, well, I still shouldn't've been out there in the first place."

Hutch smiled and braced a hand on my shoulder. "Maybe not. Of course, we both know I'd never do something like that." The corners of his mouth twitched.

And suddenly I remembered. Hutch, still suffering from withdrawal and weak as a kitten. Insisting he was well enough to meet that two-timin' snitch Mickey, and nearly gettin' us killed as a result.

Okay, so we were both stubborn idiots. Why did that make me feel so much better?

I snorted and slid off the bed, carefully settling myself in the chair. "Let's go, Blondie."

It took Hutch three tries to figure out how to release the brakes on the wheels so we'd move forward and not in little circles. I didn't even try to be nice about it.

"Sure you don't want me to drive?"

"Very funny. You know, just because you have some irrational dislike of my car, doesn't mean I can't drive anything on wheels better than you, even that striped tomato. You should've seen me when..."

I waited but he didn't finish. "I should've seen you when--what?"

"Never mind."

I shrugged. There was probably something there I should know, but I'd worry about it later. Hutch maneuvered me out the door and down the hallway to the elevator.

"Starsk?"

"Yeah?"

"Checked the TV listings this morning. There's a Bela Lugosi marathon on channel 5 tonight."

And that's why he's my best friend. He hears me, even when I'm not makin' a lot of sense.

"Yeah?"

"That's right."

I tilted my head back so I was lookin' at him upside down. "Pizza and beer?"

We'd reached the elevator. Hutch walked around me to punch the button, then leaned against the wall facing me. "Popcorn with salt--no butter--and rootbeer."

I grinned at him. "I can live with that."

The elevator was empty, thank God, so Hutch had no trouble gettin' the wheelchair inside. We were almost to the main floor when I remembered something I had to do.

"Hutch?"

"Yeah?"

"When we get to your place, I need to call Ma."

His hand came down on my shoulder with a gentle squeeze. "Got a lot to tell her, huh?"

Take care of your mother, Curly. She needs you too. And give her my love...

"Yeah."

The doors opened and Hutch was quiet as he wheeled me out into the hallway. When he finally did speak up, his voice was soft and unsure.

"Starsk?"

"Yeah?"

"You know what you said in the ICU? About knowing I was coming?"

I wondered when he was gonna ask me. And I wanted to tell him. I just wasn't quite ready.

"Yeah."

"You ever going to talk to me about that?"

I nodded without lookin' up at him. "Yeah. I am. I just need a little more time."

I heard the smile in his answer. "You've got it."

We turned a corner and started down the long corridor that would take us to the front doors and Hutch slowed down a little. Just when I was gonna ask him to quit messin' around and get us outta there, he leaned over.

"Hey, Starsk? Did you know if you build up enough speed, it's possible to do a wheelie in one of these chairs?" The low, evil tone of his voice warned me I was about to find out.

Oh, man. I knew it! I never should've needled him about his driving.

"That's real interesting, Hutch, but I don't think it's such a good idea. I mean, like you said before, I practically died a few days ago and I'm still a convalescent..."

"Hang on, buddy. I'll show you just how good a driver I am."

"Hutch, you don't gotta prove anything to me, I already... HUUUUUUUUTCH!"

~~~~~~~~~~~  
Hutch  
~~~~~~~~~~~

Three days later I finally had the go ahead from Dr. Franklin to take Starsky home--well, home to my place, anyway. Even though he was doing better every day, he was still weak and needed a lot of help. To tell you the truth, I didn't mind. I'd come as close as you could get to losing him. Having him back was a gift, even if it meant taking care of him and putting up with his moodiness until he could get on his feet.

And he was moody--no doubt about it. One minute he was his old self, flirting with the nurses and trying to coax me into smuggling a hamburger to him. The next he was quiet and withdrawn, not talking unless I asked him a question, giving me one-syllable answers. When I'd pumped a nurse for information, she'd told me he was having some trouble sleeping, and that even though he wouldn't admit it, she was pretty certain he'd been suffering from nightmares.

So when I bumped into Dr. Franklin on my way to Starsky's room, it seemed like the perfect chance to voice my concerns without my partner knowing I was checking up on him.

"Dr. Franklin?"

He looked up from the chart he was signing and smiled, an expression I still wasn't used to seeing on his face. "Detective Hutchinson. Here to take your partner home?"

I shook his extended hand. "Yeah, I'm headed there now. Do you have a minute?"

He flipped the chart shut and gave me his complete attention. "Is there a problem? I signed Detective Starsky's release papers this morning."

"No. Well, maybe. I'm a little worried about him."

Franklin's quizzical expression smoothed into understanding. "I realize he's still quite weak, but he's made amazing progress. Just give him a little more time and..."

I held up a hand and shook my head. "Not about that. I can see that physically he's improving, more every day. It's..." I rubbed the back of my neck, searching for the right words. "He's been quiet, distant. Sometimes I can't get more than two words out of him. It's not like Starsky." I chuckled. "Usually I can't get him to shut up. And the nurses tell me he's been having nightmares and trouble sleeping. I just..." I sighed, wondering if I sounded ridiculous. "I'm just concerned, that's all."

Franklin nodded and I was relieved to see empathy and not amusement in his eyes. "Detective, I don't have to tell you how close we came to losing your partner. You've earned the right to worry a little." 

I chuffed a weak laugh and he continued. "Having said that, I can reassure you that the behavior you're seeing from your friend is completely normal, considering the circumstances. His body has been through a severe trauma. It's understandable that there will be psychological repercussions as well as physical. The mood swings, the nightmares--just give him some time. As he grows stronger and we continue to cut back on the drugs, I'm sure you'll see them disappear."

It was what I'd been telling myself, but hearing it from the doctor lifted a huge weight off my shoulders. I shook Franklin's hand again.

"Thank you, doctor. For everything. Now I'd better run. If I'm late Starsky's going to..."

I glanced up at the clock, not even realizing that I'd stopped speaking. For one terrible moment time rolled backwards, Starsky was dying, and I was desperately racing to save his life.

I'd been having a few nightmares of my own.

Franklin's hand on my arm pulled me back. "Give yourself some time too, Detective. Your partner isn't the only one to survive a trauma."

By the time I got to Starsky's room I'd regained my equilibrium. One of the nurses had given me the go ahead to take him out to the car, as long as I obeyed the wheelchair rule. I knew Starsky wouldn't like it, but I figured he'd be too happy about leaving to make a fuss.

Starsky was flirting with Maggie when I stepped in the door. I just watched them for a minute, pleased to see my partner looking so cheerful. Maggie had been a godsend. She'd made that first day in the ICU bearable for Starsky and me, getting him to smile with her teasing and mothering both of us. She evidently had a soft spot for my partner, since she'd continued to visit him and check his progress even after he graduated to a regular room.

When Maggie left I was more than ready to put the hospital behind us, and I knew Starsky had to be even more anxious. "Well, partner, you ready to rejoin the rest of the world?"

"You got no idea. Let's go before they change their minds."

He started to follow me out the door but I stopped him. "Hang on, I'll be right back."

I made a big show of pushing in the wheelchair with a flourish. "Your chariot awaits."

Starsky's reaction was pretty much what I expected. He folded his arms and stuck out his lower lip in that pigheaded expression that drives me crazy. "I am not ridin' in that. I happen to have two legs and there ain't a damn thing wrong with either one."

So much for his good mood. I kept my answer patient, which really wasn't all that hard to do. These days I was so grateful just to have him breathing, I got a lot less irritated by his little quirks. "Starsky, this isn't my idea and you don't have a choice. Hospital policy says you go out in one of these or you don't go out at all."

"Well, it's a stupid policy. I ain't some kind of invalid!"

Remember what he's been through. He's got a right to be feeling frustrated and angry. Yelling at him isn't going to do any good. You've got to use reason.

"It's only as far as the front door. After that you can kiss it good-bye. C'mon, get in the chair."

The funny thing was, me staying calm just seemed to infuriate Starsky. He stomped toward the door, circling around me and the chair as if we were carrying the plague.

"Forget it. I'm outta here. You ride in that thing if you're so fond of it."

I loved him. I was ecstatic that he was still alive. But there was only so much of his spoiled child routine I was going to take. I reached out and grabbed his arm. "Stop being a baby! The hospital..."

I guess I hit a nerve without even trying. Starsky went absolutely white with anger and jerked away from me. "Screw the hospital, and screw you! I'll take a cab home."

Things happened lightening fast after that. Pulling away from me must have thrown off Starsky's already fragile sense of balance and he would've wound up on the floor if I hadn't caught him. I tried to slow the pounding of my heart, terrified that he could have really hurt himself. So of course, I covered by yelling at him.

"Damn it, Starsky, what the hell is wrong with you? You want to check back in with a concussion?"

I expected him to yell back at me, or even to shove me away. Instead he just held onto me like I was a life preserver and he'd just abandoned a sinking ship. I could tell from the tension in his body and his short, sharp pants for air that he was a breath away from tears. 

What in the...?

"Starsk?"

His voice was so low and soft I could barely hear it. "I just want my life back, Hutch. To eat what I want, when I want. To be able to do a simple thing like put on clothes without needin' to stop and rest. If I can't sleep, I want to stay up late and watch a movie, not take a pill. To be alone for longer than fifteen minutes without someone checkin' on me. I want..."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa."

I got us situated on the bed, but he still wouldn't look at me. I was stunned by his outburst. I'd known he was sick of the hospital, and I'd seen him struggling with his physical limitations, frustrated and discouraged. It just wasn't like Starsky to let it get him this far down.

"Starsky, three days ago you almost died. Ask any doctor or nurse in this hospital and they'll say you're a walking miracle. Cut yourself, and the rest of us, a little slack."

He'd look at the window, but not my face. "'S not my miracle, Hutch. You conjured it up all on your own."

Well.

Now we were getting somewhere.

"What's really bugging you, Starsk? Level with me."

"Nothin'. C'mon, let's go. I'll get in the damn chair." All of a sudden the dreaded wheelchair wasn't so bad. I had to be closing in on the real problem.

"Try again." I put my arm out to keep him from slipping off the bed and walking out the door.

Of course, that just pissed him off. He'd just explained how frustrated he was with being told what to do, and there I was insisting he had to talk. He probably thought I hadn't been listening, but I had. That's why I couldn't give him a choice.

"Talk to me." I know my partner. Sometimes getting him to come clean about what's going on inside is like pulling teeth. But if you can get him angry enough, so that he really blows his top, he'll let his mouth go before his brain can stop it.

"See? That's just what I'm talkin' about! You don't even get mad at me when I deserve it; you take my shit and never call me on it! I'm not made of glass, Hutch. When I screw up I expect you to tell me, same as always."

Screw up? He wasn't making sense.

"Okaaaay. How about you let me in on just when you're supposed to have screwed up."

He glared at me. I could see he didn't want to talk about it, but he was too mad to just let it drop.

"How about when I almost got you killed?" He ground it out through clenched teeth, furious, but I think the anger was more for himself than for me.

I gaped at him. "What?"

"Hutch, Bellamy was three seconds away from wasting you right in front of me! I never should've been out on the streets with you, I was in no shape for it. My inability to back you up almost got you killed!"

It all slid into place. If I'd've been a cartoon character, a little lightbulb would've gone on over my head. Suddenly the brooding, the distance--it all made perfect sense. I got off the bed and paced, struggling to come up with the right words.

"Have you really been stewing over this for three days?" The stiff set of his shoulders was all the answer I needed. "Starsk, you gave me all the back up I needed. You saved my life!"

It wasn't what he wanted, or needed, to hear. "It was a lucky shot! I could barely see, I could just as easily..."

"It was what we do!" I couldn't believe he was beating himself up over a series of circumstances that I viewed as a gift. "We put ourselves on the line for each other. That's why we're so good at the job. Starsk, when I needed you, you were there. Just like I knew you'd be."

Finally, finally, I got it right. I could see something shift in his eyes and his fists unclenched. Guess it was too much guilt to drop all at once, though.

"Yeah, well, I still shouldn't've been out there in the first place."

He was right. It wasn't as if I hadn't had the same thought myself as we'd climbed the stairs to Bellamy's apartment. But if I'd been Starsky... 

But I had, hadn't I?

"Maybe not. Of course, we both know *I'd* never do something like that." I smirked at him.

I'm seriously reconsidering my stand on that psychic connection. Starsky received the unspoken message--I read it in his face. He looked at me for a long moment, then hopped off the bed and got in the chair.

"Let's go, Blondie."

Welcome back, Starsk.

He was enough of his old self after that to give me grief when I couldn't figure out how to work the wheelchair, snickering under his breath and making little snide remarks. Finally he couldn't contain himself.

"Sure you don't want me to drive?"

"Very funny. You know, just because you have some irrational dislike of my car, doesn't mean I can't drive anything on wheels better than you, even that striped tomato. You should've seen me when..."

Oops. I definitely did not want to go there. Guess Starsky's not the only one who occasionally loses control of his mouth. I snapped mine shut and concentrated on navigating through the doorway. Starsky took the hint.

We were quiet on the way to the elevator, and I had time to think over everything Starsky had said. About wanting his life back. About all the ways we'd taken it from him, even if it was for his own good. I couldn't do anything about most of it, but I had a surprise that might cheer him up.

"Starsk?"

"Yeah?"

"Checked the TV listings this morning. There's a Bela Lugosi marathon on channel 5 tonight."

I grinned to myself. Only for you, buddy. Personally I'd rather watch those nature documentaries.

Starsky's reaction was worth the sacrifice. He tilted his head back, looking like a delighted little boy. "Yeah?"

"That's right."

He tipped his head down but I could see him smirking. "Pizza and beer?"

Fortunately, I'd anticipated the question and was two steps ahead of him--I'd checked with his nurse when I picked up the wheelchair. "Popcorn with salt--no butter--and rootbeer." I punched the elevator button.

Starsky's grin was the 1000 watt one I hadn't seen since Bellamy. "I can live with that."

We both can, buddy.

I figured in time the feeling might fade, and I'd come to take him for granted again. I hoped it never would. Bellamy and the Professor had inadvertently taught me a lesson I wouldn't soon forget.

We were the only people in the elevator, but Starsky's voice was soft, subdued. "Hutch?"

"Yeah?"

"When we get to your place, I need to call Ma."

I closed my eyes, glad that he couldn't see just how grateful I was not to be making that call. Once Starsky was out of the woods, I'd volunteered to let Rachel know what had happened, that he was in the hospital, but doing fine. He'd given me an odd look and shaken his head, but he also hadn't seemed inclined to call her himself.

I squeezed his shoulder. "Got a lot to tell her, huh?"

A long pause before he spoke, and I had the strangest feeling that just for a moment he'd gone somewhere else.

"Yeah."

A question, one that had been hovering in my mind since Starsky regained consciousness, tugged at my lips. I'd almost spoken it aloud countless times over the last three days, but something held me back. Maybe simple respect for his privacy during a time when he was allowed so little. Maybe fear that something profound had happened to him but I'd never know what it was.

The doors opened and I pushed him out. "Starsk?"

"Yeah?"

Here goes nothing.

"You know what you said in the ICU? About knowing I was coming?"

For some reason I couldn't just say it.

It's almost as if he knew you were coming.

You did the hardest job of all, babe. You held on.  
Nah...was easy. Pop told me...you were comin'.

"Yeah."

"You ever going to talk to me about that?"

He didn't tense up or seem upset by the question. Just looked...preoccupied. I got the feeling that whatever he'd experienced was like a new picture, and he hadn't figured out where to hang it. Once he did, I hoped he'd want to share it with me. 

"Yeah. I am. I just need a little more time."

Time. We had plenty of it now. No reason to gulp it down--I was willing to sip.

"You've got it."

We turned a corner and I could just make out the entrance to the hospital at the end of the long hallway. Inspiration struck. In college I'd briefly worked as an orderly. On slow nights some of the guys would hold wheelchair races in the deserted corridors down by the morgue. I was good--so good that after a while no one wanted to go up against me, because I always won. So Starsky was tired of being treated like glass, huh? Just maybe I could do something about that AND pay him back for those cracks about my driving.

I bent over him, dropping my voice to sound low and dangerous. "Hey, Starsk? Did you know if you build up enough speed, it's possible to do a wheelie in one of these chairs?"

His fingers tightened in a white-knuckled grip on the arms. "That's real interesting, Hutch, but I don't think that's such a good idea. I mean, like you said before, I practically died a few days ago and I'm still a convalescent..."

Nice try, Starsk.

"Hang on, buddy. I'll show you just how good a driver I am."

"Hutch, you don't gotta prove anything to me, I already... HUUUUUUUUTCH!"

Well, what do you know? Guess I haven't lost my touch.

**Author's Note:**

> I've always felt lukewarm about the epilogue to ACFS, so I decided to end my story this way and in this place.


End file.
